


Bone Deep

by matrix3



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow, X-23 (Comic)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 22:59:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 27,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17171075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matrix3/pseuds/matrix3
Summary: Taylor wakes up after the locker with unbreakable bones and the ability to rapidly heal any damage to the rest of her. When any attacks are healed up in moments, what could go wrong?





	1. Freefall and Flames

My bones ached again.

It was nothing new. I'd be tired for a couple days, then my bones would ache for a few days, then I'd be filled with energy -- almost manic -- for a couple of days. I'd enjoy a week of almost normal, then it would start all over again. A strange cycle that had become my new normal in the few months since the locker. Since I'd triggered.

I paused with a sigh, looking around the flat roof, getting my bearings. I was somewhere in the Docks, basically looking for trouble. I'd always wanted to be a hero, but in my imagination it had been more Alexandria, with witty banter and spandex, and less wondering what might have crawled up here and died.

At least my heightened senses didn't mean a heightened gag reflex. In fact, for all that I could almost track like a bloodhound, smells didn't really bother me that much.

Taking a deep breath, I filtered the air, tagging what I could identify and letting the rest fall away. People, of course, and cars, stray animals... and too much else. I'd hoped I could smell drugs, but I didn't have enough experience yet to identify those smells. I could, however, hear a rumble of male voices off to my left.

I took a running leap, passing over an alley to another roof. I didn't have super strength, but I was at least as strong as the dock workers I knew. That strength, when pushing barely 120 pounds, meant some pretty spectacular leaps. Combined with my newfound gracefulness, I found running around on rooftops to be a quick and easy way to travel while staying out of sight.

Of course, that's when I fell. Just as I was thinking how easy it was, leaping from roof to roof, I tried to jump from the top of a two story building across an alley and up to grab a third story roof, and I missed.

It wasn't entirely my own fault. The ache in my bones chose that moment to flash into a line of spasming fire that raced up my forearm. I almost caught myself with my other arm, dangling by a few fingers on my right hand, but of course, the bones in _that_ arm decided to catch fire, too.

It wasn't that far, really. Three stories onto concrete sounds bad, I know, but that is where the biggest change since the locker comes into play. I heal up pretty fast, and while my bones may annoy me when they ache for days on end, I love them.

They don't break.

I found this out the first week back at school. Sophia had tripped me, again, but this time I bumped a little freshman as I tried to recover. We were at the top of the stairs, the ceramic tile covered _cement_ stairs, and this little froshling was teetering, fighting the sudden momentum of his overstuffed backpack. I was still off balance myself, but I made a sacrifice play, managing to snag his backpack and spin, putting him safely on the second floor, and leaving myself out in midair over the stairs.

Seventeen cement stairs later, I was on the first floor with a few scrapes. By the time a teacher showed up, even those were gone.

He never did thank me. Little punk.

I hit hard. My legs caromed off a dumpster, sending me into a sudden flip and cracking my head into the ground at about a million miles per hour. I lay there, face down in the muck and garbage, and let my body get back into alignment. I'd experimented a bit -- quite a bit, actually -- and knew that while my bones wouldn't break, my body sometimes needed a moment to get over bumps and bruises... and lacerations... burns... excision... violent anophthalmia.

I had to be thorough. Wouldn't be good to encounter an unknown while I was out being heroic. "The more you sweat in peace, the less you bleed in battle," and all that. So, I wrote down everything I could think of to test. I started off at home, cutting my finger with a knife, which healed so quickly I didn't even see the cut, just a little smear of blood on the blade. I eventually worked my way up to a few sessions out at the Ship Graveyard. I finished the list by rigging a deadfall out of a slab of rusty hull, sticking my leg through a gap between two pieces of metal right in the path of the deadfall, and tripping the trap. About a ton of metal crashed down on my leg -- and stopped. It pulped the flesh on my shin, tore up my knee something fierce, but my bones were unfazed. I'd prepared an industrial jack beforehand, and slowly jacked it up, alleviating the pressure on my leg. By the time I could wiggle my foot back out through the gap, my knee and skin had reformed.

That should be long enough. I stretched, checking for any muscle pains, and then turned over and sat up. Right into a gun barrel. Looking around, I found about a dozen young men with ABB colors surrounding me, some with guns. They didn't seem impressed. Not that I could blame them, I hadn't made the best entrance, and black BMX armor was sufficient for me as a costume, but wasn't the most impressive.

"I'll give you once chance to surrender," I growled, deepening my voice. A couple guys looked confused for a moment, then started laughing.

"Just kill him," a much more impressive growl ordered from down the alley. "We have business to finish."

There was no hesitation. Three guns went off, several shots each. The BMX armor did nothing, of course, as I was hammered into the wall. I let myself slide to the ground and lay there in brief agony, letting my body heal and pop the slugs out while the thugs headed back down the alley toward the growl.

"Just like that," the growl continued, "you see one of these kids, fighting or injured or _begging_ , you put a bullet in them. Then another bullet to be sure."

Oh, that won't do at all.

I had swim goggles on under my paintball mask, which made my next move possible. I stood up, pulling a palm sized canister from my pocket as I looked over the dumpster at the group of thugs. Pulling a string to ignite the fuse on the rather illegal M-80 I'd duct taped over the canister's seam, I tossed the improvised grenade into the middle of the gang. The firecracker went off at the end of the arc, just below head height, possibly deafening a few gangers. And then the damaged seam burst, sending the canister of pepper spray spinning and buzzing around the alley, covering everyone in a cloud of capsaicin.

I pulled out my two collapsible batons, twitching them out to full length as I headed into the cloud of burning chemicals. I wasn't immune, but the pain of running through that list of experiments had reset my tolerance. My eyes were protected, mostly, so I could actually see what I was doing as I tore through the idiots like a lawnmower. I'd only been taking self defense classes for a few months, but smacking a few blind, panicking guys in the head didn't require much technique. I was almost finished, heading for a few stragglers, when the alley exploded.

Interesting. I didn't know that pepper spray was flammable, much less that when a flame is applied to a cloud of the stuff, it explodes.

I was thrown to other end of the alley, the words "fuel air explosive" floating through my mind as I bounced off a wall. I did my best to roll with the landing, popping up quick as possible to find the source of the flame. My batons had been blown out of my hands, but I wasn't about to go rooting around in the trash for them at the moment. Instead, my burning arms were up protecting my face as I scanned the smoking shrapnel scattered around the alleyway. I could smell bits of my costume still smoldering, but I ignored it. Any damage to me would heal. The charred skin on my hands was already flaking away, fresh skin growing in, although the fire in my bones persisted.

A deep roar shook the scorched alley. A dark figure stepped out of the shadows, limned in pale blue flame. I took a shaky breath. There was only one pyrokinetic in Brockton Bay as far as I knew, someone that had managed to stand alone against entire groups of capes.

Lung.

My first night out, and I run into _Lung_. I wasn't even supposed to be here. I had been planning to head out this weekend, take advantage of the last day or so of excess energy after my bones stopped aching, but I got doused in juice and soda. That's bad enough, but it ruined yet another round of homework _and_ my hero journal. Coded notes on my power experiments, costume ideas, random hero related hopes and dreams... all gone. I decided I needed to vent, to get out and hit something.

Which had worked out so well.

I didn't waste any breath voicing these thoughts, nor the litany of cursing that was also running through my head at that moment. I froze, trying to avoid his attention, while my eyes darted around for an escape route. It seemed he hadn't seen me yet, so I'd try to keep it that way. The mouth of the alley was just behind me, maybe ten feet, while Lung was a good forty or fifty feet away. The alley between us was cluttered with trash and dumpsters scarred by the blast, not to mention his own gang members, so that should slow him down a bit.

I crouched, slowly turning toward the mouth of the alley. Not a sound, yet Lung's head snapped around, locking onto me instantly. Maybe he could smell my still smoldering clothes or something, but he started after me as I bolted for the exit with my head down and feet pumping. I only had four or five steps and a turn to make, Lung wasn't pumped up yet or have wings or anything, I could --

The fist of an angry dragon god struck me down. Now, that just wasn't fair. I'd barely gotten two steps in, how the hell did he manage to move so fast?

I found myself face down in a puddle of thick, cold fluid of some sort. Not very pleasant, especially when Lung was trying to pound me into the ground like a stubborn tent peg, but it happened to have the hidden upside of protecting my face when molten flame coated my back and legs. It seemed to stick to me, searing deep into my flesh. Another hidden upside, though, was that the pain only lasted until the nerve ending fried themselves. So, about three tenths of a second.

The pressure left my back, and I could breathe again. Sort of. Distant, thunderous steps shook my bones as Lung walked ponderously back down the alley. I raised my head an inch, dragging air into my lungs while the flesh on my back worked at preventing its escape. We were getting there.

I saw one of my batons sitting inches from my hand. The ends had been blasted or melted off, leaving a rather pathetic, scorched tube of anodized aluminum. But it was mine, and it was a weapon.

Hearing returned as my ears regenerated, and the nerves down my neck, back, and legs flared and screamed as they finished connecting to the rest of me. I couldn't hear Lung's foot steps anymore, so I prepared for a dash to safety. I froze as a sudden breeze caressed my bottom, and I realized there were only a few tatters of cloth remaining to my costume. Once I made a break for it, I'd be running not only scared, but just about as naked as the day I was born. I didn't feel a similar breeze on the back of my head, so hopefully enough of my mask and helmet had survived to protect my identity, if not my dignity.

I glanced at the remnants of my baton. Running around naked in the Docks was not a good idea at any time, much less oh-dark thirty, so grabbing that would be a good idea. A small flame on my wrist caught my eye, the last few threads of my sleeve apparently acting like a candle after absorbing some of the fluids in the alley. I made a mental note to only wear fire retardant cloth from now on as I carefully, silently stretched my arm out for the baton.

Lung's roar filled the alley. Again.

I took off like an Olympic sprinter, absently snatching up the baton as my mind worked overtime. The hell? How did he know? A few strips of cloth fluttered around me as I darted around the corner, thinking furiously. If I don't figure out how he saw me, I'll never get away. Even with unbreakable bones and fast healing, I don't know if I'm immortal. And, that's only if he tried to kill me. I'd heard stories of what the ABB did with little white girls.

Back on track, Taylor, he won't be far behind. Even if there were any cameras in that alley, they'd have been blasted. His response was too quick for a lookout. How -- damn... that flame on my wrist? I knew that capes had some unusual senses. Maybe Lung could feel fire somehow? That little --

A rumbling crack of crumbling brick from above me, and I dodged, diving to the side as I prayed I picked the right direction. Sidewalk shattered under his feet as Lung landed. I kept rolling, into the empty street, but he simply reached out a ridiculously long arm and plucked me from the ground like a tumbleweed.

He straightened, holding me up by the neck with one silver scaled hand. I felt that damn breeze again, this time across my whole body, as he critically examined what I had on display.

"Huh," he grunted, "thought you were a boy." He smiled. I... did not like that smile. "You'll be repaying me for this bit of trouble, girl. You heal fast, almost as fast as me," His words rumbled in his chest as he brought me close, close enough to see flames flickering in the back of his throat. "but I bet you still need to breathe, yes?"

He squeezed. I knew he couldn't actually pop my head like a champagne cork, but it sure felt like he was giving it a go. Plus, he was right. My power experiments had included trying to breathe underwater. They had not gone so well. No permanent damage, but I was pretty sure that I did, in fact, need to breathe. And my strength was nowhere near the level necessary to pry his fingers away from my throat. My head started to swim, just like during the underwater experiments.

Fortunately, I had a snorkel.

I plunged the warped core of my baton through my ribcage. I may not be strong enough to wrestle with Lung, but I managed to slip the regrettably dull metal tube between two of my ribs and into my right lung. The end erupted with a brief spurt of blood and flesh as I exhaled, and then I could breathe.

Lung glanced down at the tube, then back to my face and grunted, "Won't save you."

He raised his left hand, and I flailed at him, desperately trying to keep him from getting a grip on my improvised snorkel. That wasn't his intent. No, instead he placed a hand on the end, and pushed. I could feel it meander through my left lung before finally lodging up near my left armpit. And he held it there as my body's healing tried to expel the foreign object.

I twisted and bucked in his iron grip, hammering at his arm, kicking him in the balls, nothing was working. His face was swimming in my vision, the edges fuzzy and everything focusing on his warped iron mask and growing grin of crooked teeth. Dimly, the burning pain in my arms spiked, a tortuous counterpoint to the floating wave of numbness rolling over me as I kept hitting him. There was a distant cry of pain, barely audible over the roaring in my ears, and I was rolling on the ground.

I flopped over onto my back, pulling in deep, tearing gasps that almost helped. My throat was free, but I still couldn't get a breath. The asphalt cold on my bare back, I scrabbled at my right ribs, searching for the end of the baton. I grasped at a nub poking out of my side, barely there. I poked my finger in the tube and pinched the rim of blood slicked metal in a vise grip, and carefully tugged at it. It caught and scraped as I dragged it through both lungs, but inevitably it was clear. Slow, deep breaths, my lungs blissfully filling as my ribcage sealed back up. But I could still hear choking. Blinking, I looked around.

Lung's severed arm was sitting at my feet... and Lung's choking form was just a few feet away.

Something had sliced through his right arm, and continued straight on through the front of his head. His mouth, nose, eyes... maybe even the front of his brain. His regeneration seemed to have prioritized his breathing, healing up his mouth and nose before his eyes or arm. The best chance I was going to get to make a run for it.

I rolled away from Lung, bracing with my fists on the ground to push up, and paused. Twin blades bracketed the middle knuckles of my left fist. They were about six inches long, off white, and -- going by the fact that they had sunk almost effortlessly into the asphalt -- very, _very_ sharp. A quick tug, and they were free of the pavement.

I opened my hand, and the blades vanished with a bright shiver of pain. I could _feel_ the two blades slither all the way back into my forearm. Clenching my right fist, another two blades flicked out. The sharp flash of pain was barely an afterthought.

There was the tap of metal on stone behind me, and I spun, crouching, blades flashing out instinctively -- and was promptly coated in a thick, sticky... something. It splashed on my goggles, blinding me, and quickly hardened around me. I briefly panicked before discovering that I could still breathe.

My left ear was still free, so I could clearly hear a deep voice nearby say, "Console, Armsmaster onsite at reported Lung rampage. Lung tranquilized and foamed, another unknown aggressive figure foamed. Waiting PRT pickup."

I tried to sigh, but the foam wouldn't let me.


	2. Waiting Games

I hadn't struck the most heroic pose before being foamed -- or the most comfortable. Strange that I was more worried about the former. Maybe it was a facet of my healing. My body might just heal whatever stress damage was being inflicted by crouching for so long.

Ok, maybe not so long. But, I was naked, hungry, naked, and about to meet the leader of the Brockton Bay Protectorate. Naked.

I'd be naked, of course, not him.

I shuddered within the foam at the mental image of Armsmaster wearing his helmet -- and only his helmet -- while holding his halberd.

I snickered into the foam. Holding his halberd.

I was getting a little loopy. I could breathe, but not well, and I had just barely healed from two ruptured lungs.

Heh. Lung ruptured my lungs, so I ruptured Lung and un-ruptured my ruptured lungs that Lung had ruptured.

Ug, that was terrible. I really needed some oxygen.

...holy hell was I bored...

...what was Armsmaster doing? I hadn't heard a single click, clack, or beep out of him since he'd reported in to the PRT. Surely nothing human could stand that still for that long. Maybe he was an AI. Yeah, created by a paranoid, reclusive Tinker, he escaped and set off into the great, wide world to fulfill dreams of being a hero... nah, an AI would put more effort into appearing human.

Oh! I healed the lungs that Lung had ruptured, when I ruptured Lung. That's better. Not great, but better. Maybe I can sneak it into conversation after they let me out of this foam.

...damn, I'm bored.

\-----

There weren't many vehicles in this neighborhood at three-something in the morning, so I heard the PRT van from blocks away. I relished the hum of its engine, slowly growing louder, and began to suspect Dragon had replicated a form of Clockblocker's power when she designed containment foam. There is no other reason to explain how a well maintained vehicle could take hours to go a few measly blocks. It felt like I spent as long listening to the PRT van inch closer as I had spent listening for the van in the first place. 

But it did eventually arrive, and Armsmaster woke up from his nap or Buddhist trance or whatever he'd been doing and helped them load up the foamed, tranquilized Lung.

And then the van left.

Armsmaster went back into hibernation, and I was left waiting for a separate van to show up.

I tried to make my full displeasure known to Armsmaster. Unfortunately, the foam so completely gagged me that I could barely emit a low hum. So, I settled for mentally cursing his lineage at length. When I got tired of that, I switched to inventing exotic fetishes in which he could indulge. It got to the point where I was creating fetishes for every letter of the alphabet just to entertain myself. I made it to the letter "S" before I heard another engine.

I didn't get my hopes up.

I made it through all the "S" fetishes that I could think of, and had managed to think of a few starting with the letter "T" -- it helps to be a voracious reader -- before the van finally arrived. I heard four sets of boots hit the ground as they joined a reanimated Armsmaster. I wasn't sure what they were doing, but they apparently knew their jobs well enough to obviate any need for verbal communication. I waited for them to crack the foam, or dissolve it, or whatever, itching to finally be able to stretch and breathe!

Then there was some whirring and creaking as the world went sideways, my inner ear telling me I was going through some minor acrobatics before settling back down again. A moment later a low rumbling thrummed in my bones.

My heart sank. They weren't letting me out of the foam. At least, not until they drove back to base.

Back to the T's, I guess. I tried to sigh.

I wonder if Armsmaster had ever visited Transylvania?

\-----

It wasn't actually that long before I detected sounds of increased traffic. Finally, we slowed and turned, followed by several bumps and pauses before the engine cut out. The faint march of boots outside the van heralded the opening of the rear doors. I was hoisted and tumbled once more, then seemed to skate along for a while -- perhaps a pallet mover or furniture dolly of some sort? -- before I came to a stop. The closing door echoed harshly, probably a lot of hard surfaces like a bathroom or something.

"All systems active, personnel at ready," a feminine voice said from behind me. There was rustling and soft squeaks on tile as the woman continued, "Scans indicate strong heartbeat, regular respiration, she's probably awake in there. Miss, if you can hear me, we will be dissolving the foam around your head first. It seems your mask is intact, but in case it falls away or needs to be removed for any reason, we have a temporary mask on hand and we are currently recording audio only. Once your head is clear, we will ask you a few questions. Ramirez, if you would?"

"Yes, Miss Militia," said a woman to my left. "Applying counteragent to the head."

There was a dull hiss, and a moment later the foam around my head began to droop under its own weight until clumps fell away like wet snow.

I could breathe. Being able to see was fabulous, too, but breathing without the drag of foam filtering it was the best thing ever. Even with the barely elastic foam still tight around my chest, these shallow gulps of air were heavenly.

"Miss?"

I looked around for the voice, but couldn't manage to turn my head quite enough. Miss Militia, the guard had said. I could see I was in a white tile room, with a drain in the middle of the floor. Cameras were tucked into the four corners of the ceiling, with a figure in PRT gear beneath each camera, and I could hear at least one more behind me. There was a large mirror in the wall straight ahead, with a curtained area to the left of the mirror. I could see the edge of a door behind me in the mirror, with a PRT agent over my right shoulder and the iconic figure of Miss Militia over my left shoulder.

"Miss," Miss Militia spoke again. "You are at PRT headquarters. Do you require medical attention?"

I shook my head. I didn't trust my voice, and I didn't want to embarrass myself by squeaking or something... like going full fan-girl.

"Good," Miss Militia said with a nod of her own. "I am legally required to inform you at this time that you are being detained for evaluation following a parahuman incident. You are not under arrest, and no charges are currently pending. After certain categories of parahuman encounters, law enforcement can legally detain and evaluate individuals in the vicinity. Part of this evaluation involves a series of questions. You are entitled to a lawyer's advice before answering any questions, although this may considerably increase how long you are detained. Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?"

I nodded again.

"We are currently recording audio only. Please verbalize all responses. If you are unable to speak, or do not speak English, accommodations can be made."

I cleared my throat and stretched my jaw a bit. "Ah, there, that's better. Ok. Yes, I understand those rights you read to me. I, uh," How best to phrase this? "I reserve the right to a lawyer, but in the interest of expediency, I will answer some questions."

"Good, thank you," she sounded much warmer, more human, now that she was done with the script or Miranda rights or whatever. "First, do you intend harm to the PRT or any other law enforcement agency or their personnel?"

"So... you're asking if I'm a villain? No, I do not intend anyone any harm."

"Thank you. We are aware that you are not completely clothed beneath the foam. All persons in this room and all parties with visual access to this room are female, and as I said we are recording only audio at this time. However, we can complete the questioning and, if everything checks out, shroud you completely or wait until a trusted party is here to assist you before dissolving the containment foam. Do you have a preference?"

"Oh, hell yes, get me out of this foam please. I can deal with a little bare skin."

Miss Militia's eyes smiled in the mirror. "Very well. Ramirez, dissolve the rest of the foam. Miss... actually, do you have a cape name I may use?"

"Um, well," I started to say while the PRT agent stepped away from the left wall with a canister in hand. A few quick sprays and she returned to her corner. "I hadn't really settled on one, yet. I'd only meant to stop a few drug dealers or something tonight. I'm leaning towards animal names. Maybe... Ratel?"

"That will work. We'll check on registering that later if you decide you like it. Once you're free of the foam, you'll find a shower and temporary outfit behind the curtain in the far corner. Once you are done, I will escort you to a more comfortable location for a few further questions."

I nodded as the foam surrounding me began to sag and slough off, puddling on the floor. I dropped to my knees, almost planting my face in the tile floor before I caught myself. I bit back a groan, shaking my hands out as my blades slipped back into my fists. It seemed leaving the blades extended for that long caused nasty cramps in my forearms.

"What happened, Ratel?" I heard Miss Militia's boots take a few steps toward me. "Are you injured after all?"

"Nah, just cramps," I replied with a shake of my head. I opened my hands wide, then made fists again, working and stretching the muscles a few times.

Picking myself up, I staggered over to the shower and pulled the curtain. There was a tiny showerhead, a second curtain keeping the spray away from a stool that currently held an outfit of some kind with a scratchy towel atop everything.

There was only one handle on the wall. Turning it caused tepid water to dribble and spit from the showerhead, but it got the job done. Streaks of the dissolving foam had found their way inside my mask, so I ran it under the spray before turning off the water. The towel removed water by scraping it off my skin rather than through any form of absorption, but again, it got the job done. Once I was basically dry, I slipped on the piece of butcher paper with buttons I found beneath the towel. It was... marginally better than a hospital gown. I guess.

Miss Militia was still standing by the closed door when I opened the curtain. She was flanked by two PRT guards holding spray guns attached to tanks on their backs.

"Hello, Ratel, if you'll follow me, we'll get you to a more comfortable room."

"Um, ok," I said as I crossed the room. "Any chance of a snack?

A glint of humor sparked in her eyes. "You're a teenager, we suspected you'd want a snack. There are a few things waiting in the meeting room. There's also a phone if you need to make any calls."

I paused, my feet stumbling for a moment. "Uh, what time is it, anyway?"

"5:38 AM. Is someone expecting you?"

"No," I sighed, "and that's the problem. I have less than an hour until I'm missed." What would Dad do if I wasn't home when he woke up? He'd grown accustomed to my early morning runs, but I'd been getting home before he was up. He might think I just ran a little farther or enjoyed the morning...

No, he's Dad. He's going to worry.

"Let's, uh, get to that phone, ok?" I could hear the resignation in my own voice, and the crease on Miss Militia's forehead told me she heard it, too.

She opened the door, following one agent out and motioning me to walk with her while the second agent took up the rear. "I don't know your situation, but," she paused, walking in silence for a few paces, " _if_ there's anything wrong at home, we can help --"

"Oh! Oh, no, nothing like that," I was perhaps louder than I intended, but I didn't care. "No, Dad is amazing, he just doesn't know about this -- that I'm a cape. So, if he wakes up and I'm not there, he'll worry."

Miss Militia nodded as she followed the agent around a few corners. "I see. I just want to say that he has reason to worry. You ran into Lung this morning. Few can say they survived an encounter with Lung, and one of those was an Endbringer."

A few comments Lung had made while leering at my bare body flashed through my head. I shivered at the memory. "It wasn't dying that I was most concerned about at the end there."

A sudden wave of incredible, icy rage rolled off Miss Militia. I'd smelled rage off of Lung this morning, and I'd been around Dockworkers -- including my father -- while they were angry and detected similar scents, but this was an order of magnitude beyond anything I'd scented before. Yet it was tightly controlled, her body language barely changed.

"We've... heard about some of the trafficking the ABB has been responsible for. It's particularly..." she trailed off, then cleared her throat. The wave of rage ebbed until it was barely a thread in all the other chemicals I detected around the area. "But, we're here. We can touch on that with a few of our questions."

Miss Militia opened a door and entered, holding the door for me. The PRT agent that had led us here stayed outside the door, with our other escort taking up the opposite side of the door while I stepped into a room only slightly larger than my bedroom. There was a mirror to my left, a scattering of cameras or something in the ceiling, and a table the size of a queen bed in the middle of the room with six rolling office chairs on each of the long sides, and two at each short side. And, on the far wall, stood a long, narrow table with small juice cartons and prepackaged treats.

Miss Militia closed the door behind me, then motioned to the snacks. "Take anything you'd like, Ratel, then take a seat."

I tore a granola bar open and crammed it in my mouth, stuffing two others in my... I didn't have pockets. I sighed, tossing them on the table and grabbing two sticks of jerky and a pint carton of orange juice. I turned to the table and blinked, realizing I didn't recall crossing the room. I was fairly sure that if I could suddenly teleport, Miss Militia would have reacted with more than a chuckle. I sat, alternating nips of jerky and sips of O.J.

"Once you swallow the food in your mouth," Miss Militia said with another chuckle, "we can start talking about just what happened tonight."

I nodded, chewing quickly and taking a long swig of juice to wash everything down. "Ah, that's better. I don't think I actually need to eat anymore, lack of food doesn't hinder my healing at least, but I can feel like I'm starving."

Miss Militia nodded at me, then straightened. "This is Miss Militia with new parahuman, temporary designation 'Ratel', interview room 3 at 0546. We are recording this interview with video. Do you understand, Ratel?"

"Yes, I consent to audio and video recording of this interview." Miss Militia's eyebrow raised at my phrasing, but she didn't comment.

"First, I will state that we found you near Lung, who was missing his arm and face. Can you please state why you were in the area?"

"Uh, yes, I was out for my first night as a hero. I was looking to prevent or stop low level crime, muggings and the like."

"I see," she said when I didn't continue. "Did the ABB interrupt your patrol?"

"Ah, no," I said, shifting in my seat a bit. "I, uh, was hopping from roof to roof, when I missed a handhold and slipped. I fell into an alley and was discovered by a group of ABB, maybe ten or twelve of them? Anyway, three of them shot me a few times each, and they walked away when they thought I was dead. I--"

"One moment," she said, holding up a hand. "They thought you were dead? You showed no wounds during processing, so we thought you a brute, but if the bullets bounced they probably wouldn't have walked away. Why did they think you dead?"

I shrugged, "Being shot nine or ten times at close range makes a mess. They walked away before I healed."

"You mentioned a moment ago being able to heal yourself. One of the wards is able to rearrange his biology, so he still shows evidence of damage but can still function. Are your powers similar?"

"Not really," I wobbled my hand a bit, "but not far off. I recover really quickly, so they saw blood and gore, but by the time they got back to Lung, I had mostly recovered."

"And then?"

I shrugged as I continued to tell her about the start of the fight. She raised her eyebrow again about the home made pepper spray bomb, but didn't say anything. I went through being blown down the alley, and watching my hands heal, then trying to run from Lung. She winced when I talked about being roasted alive, and again when I mentioned my "snorkel" tactic. I caught another wave of cold rage when I repeated his clear intention of how I would be repaying him for the trouble I had caused, though it was more muted this time. Finally, I got to where I realized I had escaped Lung's hold.

"...and then I pulled the rod back through my lungs."

There was a moment of silence, before Miss Militia leaned forward. "Was there anything else before Armsmaster showed up?"

"Oh, you know, just healing the lungs that Lung had ruptured after I ruptured Lung."


	3. A Rare Quiet Chat

Miss Militia was momentarily overwhelmed by my bon mot, then muttered something about never mixing with an assault.

I tried to play it straight, but she shook her head as I struggled to contain my grin. "Been holding on to that line for a bit, have you?"

"You have no idea!" I burst out, then quieted down with a small cough. "I had some time on my hands, you know."

She chuckled softly, shifting to glance down at her small tablet on the table. "I think we've sufficiently explored your encounter with Lung for the moment. Miss Militia and Ratel ceasing recording at 6:07AM" She tapped something before looking up at me. "I have a few more questions, but you mentioned needing to make a phone call."

"Oh, sh-- ah, yeah," I stuttered a bit, looking around for a phone, but I didn't see anything on the table or attached to the wall. "You have a phone around?"

"Here," she leaned forward, holding out a small flip phone. "As a precaution, we don't have any hardlines in the interrogation rooms."

"Oh, thanks." I took the phone from her and she leaned back, picking up her tablet and scrolling through something.

I looked over the phone for a moment. A small block of textured black plastic, it looked brand new, so probably wasn't her personal phone. Why would they have brand new cell phones just laying around? I flipped it open with a shrug and dialed the 800 number for my pre-paid long distance card. At the automated menu, I punched in the sixteen digits that I'd committed to memory ages ago.

I'd originally memorized the number so I'd have a way to contact dad without needing change or having to carry a cell phone. Now, I hoped it could obscure the home number. Of course, the Protectorate had all sorts of Tinkers and Thinkers to track me down if they really wanted to crack my identity, but I saw no reason to make it easy on them.

"H'zo?" A sleepy snort answered after the third ring. I felt a twinge of guilt, Dad must have been dead asleep.

"Hi Dad," I blurted out, "it's me, I'm fine but I'm a witness or something -- while out jogging. I'm safe and sound with the Protectorate at the moment, I'll be heading home as soon as they're done with questions." That was maybe a little fast for his poor brain at the moment, but I wasn't sure what else to say without panicking him.

"Taylor?" His voice sharpened with worry as he woke up. "What? The Protectorate? Why're you at the Protectorate? Are you ok?"

"I'm healthy and everything's intact, Dad, don't worry. I was just out early this morning, with my pepper spray and everything, and I witnessed some, well, 'parahuman activity'." I tried to make the air quotes audible over the phone. "Apparently, that means the Protectorate can --"

"Parahuman activity? A cape fight? Where were you?"

"I was... just running, not anywhere that should have been danger--"

"Where were--" He stopped and sighed. "Never mind, as long as you're safe now. I'll come pick you up."

I bit down on a loud "NO", and managed to keep my voice level. "That would not be best, Dad. Just... just hold on a moment."

I covered the phone and looked at Miss Militia, "Can I get a ride home?"

She tilted her head for a moment, then said softly, "Ratel," she hesitated, her eyes flicking to the phone in my hand and back to my mask, "you don't have any clothes, you won't be able to sneak home and change clothes now that your Dad's awake. He'll have questions... it might be best to have that conversation here."

"Taylor? Taylor!" The tiny crackle of Dad's voice on the phone was the only sound for several long seconds of silence. She was right. I'd dressed before heading out, I didn't have any clothes stashed away in an alley or anything. I briefly considered climbing in my window to dress before heading back out my window and around to pretend I was just coming home. But he'll be on alert now, he'd hear if I tried to sneak in. I brought the phone back to my ear with a sinking stomach.

"Sorry, Dad... **Dad**... _**Dad**_!" I finally managed to interrupt his rising panic. "I'm back. I had to ask... them a question. I think," I had to stop for a moment as my chest tightened. I took a deep breath to ease the constriction. "I think you're right. You should come here -- and please bring some clothes."

There was a pause as Dad absorbed my sudden change of mind. "Ok, Taylor. What do you need? A clean shirt? Jeans?"

"Um, yeah, shirt and jeans would be good. My jeans are on hangers in my closet, and just grab a shirt from my dresser. The second from the top drawer." I bit my lip. I wasn't looking forward to the next part. "I, uh... also need a bra, there's one on the closet handle, and a pair of pant-- _underwear_ from the top drawer of my dresser." I could feel my face start to burn.

"Bra," he drew the word out, "and underwear?" The words hung in the air. He sounded like I'd asked him to fetch me a unicorn. I sighed.

I loved my Dad, but we did not have one of those "two-adults-hanging-out" relationships. I don't know if he even truly realized I'd had to worry about pads and tampons and those "grown up" sorts of things for two years now. I got my first period a few months after Mom died, and I had to talk with --

Nope. Not going there. Back on task. Before the awkward pause on the line got even more awkward.

"Dad? Just grab me a shirt, jeans, bra, and underwear, and come down-- Oh! And socks and shoes. Socks are next to my underwear, and my running shoes should be by the back door. Get those and come on down to the PRT building. We'll talk then."

Miss Militia suddenly leaned forward, raising her index finger. "Oh, hold on, Dad." I covered the mouth...piece, microphone thing on the cell phone, and looked up at her.

"He should go to the PRT parking structure on Almond and 5th, tell the attendant at the entrance 'today's color is green, and I like the letter K'."

I blinked at her for a moment. "...today's color is green, and I like the letter K?"

"Yes, that will get him priority access and alert me so I can escort him to you."

Maybe someone was a big Sesame Street fan. I put the phone back to my ear and relayed the directions and passphrase to my father. He repeated it all back to verify, then hung up.

I slowly closed the flip phone and placed it on the table. "Well," I sighed as I idly spun the phone on the tabletop, "he should be here in thirty minutes. I hope he doesn't run any red lights." I pushed the phone across the table.

Miss Militia shook her head. "No, you can keep it. Even if you don't join or register, it's good to have a separate phone. The appropriate PRT and Protectorate numbers are in there if you need support, and we can text you for updates or call for city wide emergencies."

"Oh. Ok." _Such brilliant conversation, Taylor._ I took the phone back, turning it over in my hand. There was small charging port, but I couldn't find any label or branding on the slightly grippy black plastic. There wasn't even a little screen for notifications. I hadn't really taken a good look at a flip phone in a while, but I thought they all had the little external screen. I slipped it in my--

Right, no pockets. I awkwardly held it against my hip for a moment, then put it back on the table with a grimace. I heard a snort as Miss Militia's scarf ruffled. I guess she noticed that I'd forgotten my lack of pockets. I ripped open a packet of beef jerky and took a vicious bite to cover my embarrassment. I chewed a bit in thought, then washed it down with the last of the orange juice. Miss Militia waited patiently, scrolling on her tablet with occasional taps on the screen.

"So," I broke the silence. "You mentioned other questions?"

She nodded, "We do have a few more questions, but they're general questions. Whether you want to join the Protectorate or Wards, if you want to be an affiliate, that sort of thing. They can wait until your father gets here."

"Ah, I see," I spun the empty juice carton on one corner. A thought occurred to me, so of course the words slipped out immediately, "Why are you here?"

Her eyebrows arched as she looked up at me. "Why am I waiting with you? Or why was I the one to handle your processing?"

"Either."

"Well," she set her tablet on the table, then leaned back in her chair and shrugged. "I was the only female Protectorate member on base when you came in, and we prefer a Protectorate hero be on hand for any new parahumans. You were nude, and policy dictates same gender agents for processing, unless otherwise requested. And, I'm still here," she paused with a tender look in her eyes, "because it seems like you could use some backup when your Dad arrives.

"Oh." That was a really nice reason. "It'll totally work, too, Dad's a huge fan."

I held my hands up as she laughed. "I am, too, and I'm not trying to set you guys up or anything, and I shouldn't have even mentioning setting you guys up, I'm just shutting up now."

Miss Militia brought her hand up to cover her scarf and threw her head back in laughter. She waved away my apology with her left hand as she calmed down, "Don't worry about it, Ratel," she said, a few more chuckles bubbling up. "I rarely get the chance to just talk with people, this is good."

Chatting with Miss Militia was really pleasant. We talked about the cape scene in the Bay, how it was different than the rest of the country, and she even talked a bit about being on the first Wards team. By the time Miss Militia got a message on her tablet about Dad's arrival, I was really feeling comfortable with the Protectorate and I was seriously tempted by the Wards. A big reason I didn't want to join before was having to explain it all to Dad, and that just went out the window. I was still a little nervous about dealing with another "teen drama" environment, but with someone like Miss Militia around, how bad could it be?


	4. Parental Nightmare

Miss Militia glanced up from her tablet. "He's waiting at the guard station. How do you want to proceed? I can bring him straight here. Or I can brief him in a separate room, then bring you to him."

"I..." that was a good question. Miss Militia could break the hard news, and I could waltz in and have him sign things...

I couldn't do that to Dad. I sighed and shook my head. "Bring him here, and I'll... I'll tell him."

Miss Militia nodded slowly, standing and crossing to the doorway. She looked back at me from the door. "I'll bring him straight back here. Five minutes tops, ok?" I nodded and fidgeted, spinning an empty orange juice carton on a corner. "Just sit tight, maybe try to have more to eat. Jones and Ramirez are at the door if you need anything."

I glimpsed the two agents in question standing just outside the door as Miss Militia left. I recognized Ramirez, who had let me out of the foam, on the left side of the door frame, but the massive figure on the other side was new. She must have relieved the other trooper that had escorted us from the tiled room.

My nose was the only reason I could tell she was female. Jones was a moving mountain who could probably make NFL linebackers look for a new line of work. I wouldn't be surprised if she had a Brute rating.

"You are the brute squad," I said under my breath, then rolled my eyes. They were probably still recording, and now had me on tape mumbling movie quotes to myself.

I nervously rapped on the table. I'd never had much of a sense of rhythm before, but that had apparently been upgraded along with my strength and other physical abilities. I could barely do a cartwheel a few months ago, while now I could perform all sorts of backflips and other crazy moves. It was a nice feeling, being all graceful. Or even little things, like discovering I could now carry a tune.

Which is why I was lost to the rhythm, absorbed in drumming to half-remembered snatches of Toto songs, when Dad stepped through the door. We both froze, staring at each other.

One of the Slim Jims I'd been using as a drumstick slipped from my slack fingers and hit the floor with a small plop, breaking the silence.

"...Taylor?"

"Um, hey, Dad --" my lackluster greeting was cut off by arms around my neck. An intense hug, not the throttling I half-expected for being so stupid and scaring him to death. I gently hugged him back. It was... good. Really good. We hugged most every morning on our way out the door, but those were habit. Perfunctory. This hug definitely had a weight to it. I suppose nearly dying will do that.

Eventually, he eased his hold on me. He crouched by the chair, holding me by the shoulders as he looked me over.

"What --" he shook his head. "Are you ok? What are you wearing? Why the mask? What happened?"

Oh. Right. The mask.

I reached up, feeling the remains of the paintball face mask and goggles. I could see Miss Militia over Dad's shoulder, standing by the closed door. She looked me in the eyes.

"We aren't recording, _Ratel_."

The slight emphasis on my potential cape name answered a few unvoiced questions. I was pretty sure she'd heard Dad call me by name on the phone, and I doubt she could have possibly missed my name just now, so by using my pseudonym she was telling me that she'd only be using my cape name. And that seeing my face wouldn't change anything. Her superiors may track me down, but I'd deal with that if it happened.

The mask was hanging on by threads and the grace of god -- or confoam residue, at least -- so it only took a slight tug to slide it up and off my face. I set it on the table, only now realizing how battered it truly was. Scarred and half melted, the goggles were missing entirely and the grill over my mouth had cracked all the way across, leaving jagged fangs behind.

"Ratel?" Dad asked softly. I looked up into the confusion, and fear, in his eyes.

"It's," my breath caught for a moment. "Ah, it's m-my cape name, Dad."

"Cape...?" The question trailed off as his grew haunted. "You triggered. When?"

The words prickled and caught in my throat. I shrugged instead, looking at my hands twisting in my lap.

"The locker," Dad groaned, the words barely audible as bitter notes of sorrow, regret, and black anger rolled off him. His arms were tentative, sliding sound me slowly as he hugged me again. "I'm so sorry, Taylor. I was so blind, wrapped up --"

"No," I shook my head where it rested against his shoulder. "No apologies. Either way. I should have.." I shook my head again. "I'm done with the past. I'm fed up with it. I'll never forget, but it -- it..." Dad's shoulder was wet against my cheek. When did I start crying? And sniffling?

Something inside me gave way, like a muscle that had been all cramped up finally relaxed. I sobbed into Dad's shoulder for at least a minute before the tears eased.

Miss Militia appeared at my elbow, a box of tissues in hand. I gently withdrew from Dad's embrace and grabbed a few tissues. I wiped my eyes, then grabbed a few more and blew my nose. I tossed the wad of used tissues over my shoulder to land in the garbage can in the corner of the room, ignoring Dad's startled reaction to my no-look nothing-but-net used tissue skills.

I straightened, grabbing another tissue to dab at the last few tears. "I have powers, Dad, and I'm going to be a hero. I was starting last night, trying to stop a few muggings and make a name for myself. I was planning on being an independent, for a bit anyway. To, you know, avoid any potential teen drama with the Wards."

I glanced at Miss Militia with an apologetic shrug. "There are some nasty bullies at my high school, and don't want to keep having to deal with it."

I sighed as I looked back at Dad. "But, best laid plans and all that. I had an accident, ended up here, and Miss Militia... she's been really great. I'd like to join the Wards, get some backup, and learn more about my powers so last night doesn't happen again, and... be a hero."

"Before you respond," I interrupted as Dad opened his mouth. "Could I put on some real clothes?"


	5. A Litany of Heart Attacks

Powers are bullshit. Pure, unadulterated bullshit. I stared at my reflection. No scars anywhere, no burns, just smooth skin and toned muscle.

Miss Militia had escorted me to the women's locker room after Dad handed over a bag of the clothes I'd requested. After an absolutely heavenly shower that was far too brief, I had caught sight of myself in a floor to ceiling mirror running along one wall. I'd fallen off a building, been shot something like a dozen times, and been burned to a crisp twice... and I couldn't find a mark on me.

Muscles flexed and shifted beneath my skin as I turned and twisted during my inspection. Far more muscle than I had before triggering, that's for sure. More, even, than I remembered seeing after yesterday's shower. Or maybe not. I don't make it a habit to flex in front of the mirror, I think that's more of a "guy thing".

I sighed and turned away from the mirror. I'd only taken fifteen minutes, but I couldn't leave Dad any longer. I'd really put him through a wringer this morning. I shook my head as I slipped on my jeans. I didn't know what on Earth I was going to say to him.

I tugged my black, long sleeved shirt over my head and moved on to socks and shoes. Shoot, I'd forgotten to ask Dad to bring a jacket or hoodie. At least I don't feel the cold much any more.

The dark gray mask Miss Militia had given me went around my eyes, and I was good to go. A final check in the mirror showed that the unfamiliar mask, for all that it barely covered from my cheekbones to my eyebrows, actually concealed my identity pretty well. I shrugged as I opened the door. They'd probably caught Dad on a dozen cameras by now, so my identity was pretty well shot to hell, but I appreciated the thought.

"Ready, Ratel?" Miss Militia asked as she looked up from her tablet. Anyone else, and I'd wonder if she was addicted to Fruit Ninja or something.

At my nod, she tucked the tablet into a large pouch on her belt, then turned and led me back down the winding path to the conference room. I'd initially thought she'd stay with Dad to answer some of his questions, but I guess PRT policy dictated a Protectorate escort until I passed whatever checks they required to assure them I was safe to wander with only a mundane PRT escort.

Ramirez and Jones were still bracketing the door when we returned. Miss Militia pushed the door open and held it for me. I passed Jones on my way into the room, noticing that the top of my head almost reached her chin. The woman must be Manpower's sister or something.

I pulled out the chair next to Dad as the door closed behind me, then fidgeted in my chair as Miss Militia sat in a chair on the other side of the table. I tapped a rhythm on thought as they waited, even though Dad looked ready to burst with questions. For all my talk of being done with the past, I was having an awfully hard time talking about what happened.

"I don't think I can die," I blurted, "but I came close this morning."

Dad went white as his t-shirt, then flushed a deep plum, "You wh-"

"Please," I cut him off quickly, "I have to get this out. I'm sorry." He remained an alarming shade between purple and red, but he closed his mouth.

I took a long breath. It'd take too long to go through everything I'd told Miss Militia. Maybe start with powers. "I heal, Dad. Like, ridiculously fast. I'm nimble, and I'm strong. Maybe not Glory Girl strong, but probably Olympic weightlifter. I can hear more sounds, see more colors than I should, and my nose is so good that I can almost track like a bloodhound. So, I can hear or smell people coming, run fast to escape, if I have to fight, I'm strong. If I do get hurt, I heal it in no time."

I took both his hands in my own, staring at them rather than risk looking him in the eyes. I might not manage to keep my momentum. "I've been taking self defense classes, you know, and I thought I could take out some muggers. I never expected to run into any other capes, and if I did, I thought I'd just slip away.

"Then there was this weird spasm in my arm. I slipped from a roof, and landed in the middle of some ABB." His hands clenched as scent of worry and fear intensified.

"Still not a problem. I played possum, the gang members left, and I tried to sneak away. Until the leader mentioned killing kids. I had to stop them." His eyes were shut as his jaw twitched.

"I had this little pepper spray bomb I'd made, which was able to take them all out. I thought I'd won... until everything exploded. I tried to run, Dad, I did, I swear. I took out the gangers, nobody would hurt the kids, I tried to get out of there, but Lung was too fast."

Dad exploded. "Lung?! The f--"

"Dad, I'm ok now," I interrupted him. Only my grip on his hands kept him in his chair. "I'm here, I'm whole, I'm ok now."

It took a moment, but he settled back into his chair, his face a worrisome mottled red and white. "Breathe, please. I'm all healed up, I'm ok. A few deep breaths."

I waited until he actually took a single deeper breath before continuing. "I fought Lung some, played possum again and tried to run, he jumped on me, and then I discovered another ability. Since the loc-" I stopped short, the word catching in my chest. I cleared my throat and continued. "Since I... got my powers, my body will ache all over for a while, then I'll be tired, then normal, then I'll ache again. I thought it was the flu the first time, but then it happened again and again in this regular cycle. Well, the ache in my arms had been worse than ever today, and then there was a spike of pain. And something happened that saved me."

I turned to find Miss Militia looking at me intently. I guess I never actually mentioned the cycle of aches to her before. Oops.

"Miss Militia, could I show Dad, uh..."

She nodded after a moment. "There are a few drops of blood, right? Just use a napkin, please."

That's... logical. This is my life now, I guess, being politely asked to use a napkin so I don't casually bleed on things. Puberty all over again.

I released Dad's hands and grabbed a few napkins to lay on the table. I positioned my right arm over the table, with my fist over the napkin and knuckles pointed away from either Dad or Miss Militia. I tried to bring the blades out slowly, but I guess I needed more practice.

It took a moment to find the right muscles again, then Dad's face went white yet again as a pair of six-inch blades snapped out through the skin between my knuckles. A fat drop of blood was barely able to well up on my fist before the cuts sealed themselves. I hadn't noticed before how the blood simply refused to stick to the blades.

"Lung had been holding me with one arm, when I lashed out with these," I tilted my head and shrugged. "Pure instinct, I didn't even know I could do this before. The blades are very sharp and strong enough that I took off his arm and injured him enough to give me some time to get away. That's when Armsmaster came on the scene and foamed me and Lung."

Dad nodded, his color slowly returning to something a little more normal. I kept the blades out for him to look at, but I had basically run out of things to say.

While Dad was collecting himself, I idly grabbed the empty juice box with my left hand. Holding the blades very still, I dragged the corner of the carton along the blade between my index and middle fingers. The blade pressed through the corner without resistance, and I barely heard a whisper as a chunk peeled off and dropped to the table.

Neat.

I looked up to find two sets of arched eyebrows. Miss Militia looked quite impressed, while Dad looked more unsettled.

"Ok," Dad said slowly, "I think that's enough demonstrating for now. You can put those away."

The blades vanished with a thought, and I found myself wrapped in another hug.

"Don't. Do that. To me." He took a shaky breath. "I don't care how fast you heal."

"I'll try, Dad," I said with a sniff. These hugs are pretty good.

He suddenly tensed. "Armsmaster _foamed_ you?"


	6. Well That's Awkward

Dad was tense in my arms, my head awkwardly tucked under his chin. I shifted slightly as the silence stretched out, the top of my head almost physically singed by the intensity of the glare he was directing at Miss Militia.

Miss Militia cleared her throat. "Well, sir... there is a protocol for --"

"Protocol?" Dad's voice was calm. Controlled. The quiet before the storm. "It's _protocol_ to immobilize Lung's victims? Without treatment? For hours?"

I heard Miss Militia wince. Literally.

The tension -- the harsh, vibrant energy in the air -- had sharpened my senses to such a degree that I could hear her cheek brush against her bandana. I even heard what might have been the whisper of her muscles as they bunched and shifted beneath her skin.

"Mr. Hebert," she started, then paused. Her voice softened as she continued, "I will not hide behind protocol. I am not a parent, I can hardly imagine what you've been through this morning, I'm not about to pile on any more."

She took a slow breath, and I felt Dad's tension ease by a few degrees. "Simply put, Mr. Hebert, containment foam has been a miracle for us. The best field dressing we have for burns or puncture wounds is containment foam. It is antiseptic and forms a seal around wounds. Once set, it binds broken bones and supports possible spinal injuries. On top of all that, it is the very best protection our people have in an unstable situation."

Dad had been relaxing by inches as Miss Militia spoke. I tilted my head against Dad's collar, watching her out of the corner of my eye as she spread her hands. "Ratel's actions are very understandable, she had just been assaulted and terribly burned. She heard a strange sound and reacted defensively." She frowned, glancing at her tablet on the table. "But that's hindsight. In that moment, entering an unknown situation, Armsmaster had to make a split second decision regarding two figures covered in blood, one of whom acted aggressively with a bladed weapon. Before containment foam, he would not only have been _authorized_ to use lethal force in that situation, it would have been _expected_... and part of his training."

Dad's arms tightened around me in the long silence that followed. Miss Militia sat calmly as Dad was lost in thought.

I felt his jaw move against my hair as he licked his lips. "You... are very good at this, ma'am."

He pulled away, leaving his hands on my shoulders. "And you make a good point," he said, still looking at Miss Militia. "Now, unless there's more paperwork, I would love nothing more than to go home with my daughter."

Miss Militia nodded, holstering her tablet. "Very understandable. Everything is in order here, but I'll need your signature on a few things at the guard station on our way out."

She held the door for us, nodding at Ramirez and Jones still stationed in the hall. Dad grabbed his coat and I picked up the empty bag he had used to hold my clothes. Ramirez preceded us down the hall while Jones took up a rear position. We walked for about five minutes, and Dad kept his arm around my shoulder the whole way, not quite a hug, but not letting me get too far away from him.

Dad and I paused outside a booth with a hip high counter, while plexiglass of some sort reached up to the ceiling. Miss Militia tapped something on her tablet, and the guard quickly pulled a binder out from behind the counter and passed it through a little drawer. She leafed through it for a moment, then placed it on the counter outside the plexiglass.

"Sir," she said, holding up a pen, "Please sign here stating that you and all parties for whom you claim responsibility are exiting the building at this time."

Dad glanced up at the clock, then signed quickly. Miss Militia turned the page and had Dad initial a few other spots.

Finally, Miss Militia held out a folder, "Here are a few informational pamphlets you might find useful. Besides the Wards, there is also information on our Affiliate program. And, there is contact information if you would like to schedule a tour, try some power testing in a structured, controlled environment, or just need to talk about anything." She glanced at me with that last bit, a smile in her eyes.

Dad took the folder, then handed it off to me. "Just drop this in bag, would you T--uh, Ru... Ratel?"

I took a breath of relief as Dad remembered to use my codename in public. Not that it would have been too bad here, but it'd be a good habit overall. I dropped the folder in the bag, catching a glimpse of Mouse Protector striking a cheesy pose on the front. Probably a good choice to grace the front of an informational packet, she was one of the original Wards, and was popular around the world. She even had her own cartoon show. Allegedly, she voiced the the animated Mouse Protector's mentor character of Mouse-Ra the Everliving herself, though I haven't seen any official admission.

I shook away the random thought and quickly caught up with Dad as he headed for the door. I waved at Miss Militia, and gave Ramirez a quick half salute before the door swished shut behind us.


	7. Tranquil Thoughts

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Dad had been quiet in the car, overly cautious and driving under the speed limit. I'd actually dozed off for the last few minutes of the trip, barely rousing long enough to stumble up the stairs to my bed.

And then I woke up just past 9:30, completely unable to fall back asleep. I could hear Dad puttering around downstairs. I should talk to him, but the brief downtime had eroded my confidence. What can I say? Is he angry I didn't talk with him? Why didn't I talk with him? Everything seemed reasonable at the time, reasons to keep my power secret, reasons to go do my testing on my own, but now it was all tangled up. So I delayed, using the greatest procrastination tool ever devised: the internet.

I used to think the desktop on my desk wheezed when first powered up, but after my hearing kicked up a few notches, it was like warming up a jet engine every time I flipped the switch. But it eventually calmed down, and I dialed into the last free dial up service in Brockton Bay.

I once commented in computer class on the odd sounds the modem made when trying to establish a connection. Mrs. Knott nodded with a fond smile, while my classmates looked at me like I'd grown a second head. I might possibly be the last person under forty in the city who still used dial up.

I sighed in relief as the warbling cut off and my electronic home away from home finally loaded: ParaHumans Online.

I hunted around for new threads or recent posts that might have any news on Lung's capture. Finally, I found a thread in the general "BB News" sub forum talking about gunshots and an explosion, and someone followed up with a link to a video of the fight.

I felt a low burn of satisfaction in my chest. I'd fought Lung, and now everyone could see how awesome I am for fighting Lung... naked.

I'd fought Lung _naked_.

I clicked the link with a sinking stomach, channeling all my willpower down the thin cable, urging it to load faster. Please don't let it show my naked ass for the world to see.

Three minutes and twelve seconds later, the video _started_ to buffer.

It was almost as bad as waiting in the confoam, but eventually it played, and I watched it, and I could breathe again. The video had been taken from the far end of the alley. It showed me standing up after the explosion, an indistinct figure nearly lost in the smoke and shadows. It showed me trying to run for it, only to be smashed into the ground after Lung leaped forty-something feet in a single bound. He pounded on me for a bit, the screen completely whiting out a few times at the intensity of the flame he was throwing around, then Lung turned around and the video ended. The poster stated he'd made a break for it at that point, since it seemed Lung was heading for him.

Other posters chimed in, apparently the explosion had awakened quite a few people and some of them had been brave (or foolish) enough to go investigate. Someone reported on Lung losing his arm and face, and then a seven page debate ensued on whether the "catch" should go to the unknown cape for injuring Lung or to Armsmaster for foaming him.

I wasn't too interested in the debate. No, I was far more interested in a short post just as the debate was really taking off.
    
    
    There are bare ly any details, as if someone was strangling the flow of information. Odd, since I usually need a snorkel to deal with all the BS. If anyone wants to give me the skinny, dip over to privates chat and PM me.

That many references to nudity should have set off a riot of bad jokes, but it seemed to get overlooked with the launch of the debate over Armsmaster and "SliceNDice", as a few people were calling me. Combined with mentions of strangling and a snorkel, I was pretty sure this AllSeeingEye wanted me to message them.

I took a minute to think it over. Considering the number of nudity references, they might have embarrassing photos or videos, and this was a prelude to blackmail. If I didn't respond, they might release whatever they had, so I should at least try to draw them out. I'd normally worry about posting from home, but after an assignment on IP addresses and telnet at school, I'd discovered that the dial up actually masked my IP pretty well. Yay for old as dirt obsolete technologies!

And, it would delay talking with Dad for a few more minutes.

I kept it simple. I PM'd AllSeeingEye that I might have some info if he had something for me in return. Then, I closed the browser and shut everything down. Time to face Dad.

I rambled downstairs and into the kitchen to find Dad staring at a mound of dishes in the sink.

"Hey, Dad."

"Oh," Dad swung around at my voice, "Ah, Taylor, I didn't think you'd be up yet."

He waved weakly at the sink. "I was trying to make pancakes, but I mixed up the salt and the sugar the first time, then lost count of the flour the second time."

"Did you use... every bowl?"

Dad sighed. "Yeah."

We both stared the sink for a few moments before Dad shook his head. "I can't concentrate. How about we deal with," he flicked his hand again, "this later, and grab breakfast at Cuccio's?"

That took me back. Mom had come with us the last time we'd gone there. "You sure?"

Dad's smile was sad, but at least he smiled. "I'm sure. Temp's not too bad outside, we can walk and have time to talk a bit."

"You know," I said as I leaned in and bumped shoulders with him. "You didn't have to mess up pancakes as an excuse."

His laugh was quiet, and too brief, but more genuine than I'd heard in ages. "Oh, right. Yes, that was my plan all along. My evil plan. Evil, like the fru-its of the devil."

Another reference to Mom, this time one of her favorite movies. I appreciated the effort, I don't know how much thinking of these reminders must have hurt. My stomach was still tumbling at the thought of the incipient conversation, but Dad really put in some effort. I can push out of my comfort zone in response.

"Yeah, I like that idea, Dad. Let's go walk and talk, and then we can fill up on pastries."

\-----

It was chilly, maybe fifty degrees, but it was sunny, and the cold didn't bother me much anymore. I was wearing a ratty sweatshirt, mostly to avoid the stares I'd get if I was running around in a t-shirt, while Dad had a fleece lined leather jacket that may have predated my birth.

We talked a bit as we walked. I filled Dad in on some of the details about the locker and what I had been up to while testing my powers. He'd been taking it pretty well so far, when we were interrupted by a woman running out of a beat up house two doors down.

She'd barely made it to the gate when a raw boned man in jeans and an unbuttoned flannel shirt ran out of the house after her. The stained shirt flapped in the breeze as he crossed the yard, leaving his beer gut bare to the chill. His hand snapped out, thick fingers digging into her shoulder as he spun her around.

"You don't walk away when I'm talking to you," he spat. Pale morning light flashed off several gold rings as he wound up to backhand the woman. I moved to intercept, but Dad was somehow already there.

"Good morning," he said in a low voice as he slid between the two. The guy automatically took a step back to maintain his personal space, and Dad smoothly took a step back himself, pushing the woman back and out of the man's briefly slack grip. The woman dropped to sit on the dead grass behind Dad as he continued, "Let's not do anything we might regret later."

It was easy to forget how tall Dad was. He tended to slouch and fade into the background a bit. He was standing straight now, his head high, and he had at least four inches on this guy, who seemed distinctly uncomfortable looking up at Dad.

"This is none of your fuckin' business," he growled, glancing around. His unshaven lips twisted as his eyes settled on me. "Take your girl and walk away 'fore I take her from you."

"Oh, you're better off dealing with me," Dad said with an amused huff. Keeping his eyes on the man, Dad motioned to me with his off hand. "Sweetie, why don't you help this lady down the street a ways."

I'd only taken two steps before the guy swung at Dad. He swayed a hair to the left and the blow glanced off his cheek.

"Now that's out of your system," Dad said, not taking his eyes of the guy. He flicked his left hand at me again, encouraging me towards the woman behind him. "How about we just part ways? We don't --"

Dad was interrupted by another wild swing. I took off down the street behind Dad, ignoring the woman's shocked squeak as I scooped her up on the way. I stopped after two houses and set the woman on a low wall by the sidewalk.

Turning around to help Dad, I saw him walking towards me. Not even a few seconds, and the other guy was groaning on the ground.

"Not bad for an old man, huh?" He said with a hug. "Don't be so surprised, I wasn't always a paper pusher, you know."

"Yeah, yeah," I said quickly, returning his hug. "Still, a little weird to see you flatten a guy, you know?"

Breaking the hug with a chuckle, he turned to the woman. "Hello ma'am, I'm Danny, this is my daughter Taylor. Can we help you get to a friend or relative's place? Here, let's walk while we talk..."

I kept an ear on the conversation as Dad calmed the woman and helped her stand, then start working out a plan. Most of my attention as we continued down the street was on the idiot who had been assaulting her. We almost made it to the corner before he finished struggling to his feet. He shouted a few choice threats at us, but didn't get any closer. I had his scent, though. If he tried anything, he'd better pray he was downwind.

I realized as we walked along that all the smells around me were... not stronger, really, but more distinctive. It was easier to pick out individual notes, catalog everything that Dad and the newly single Theresa had eaten in the last few days, and I could even date scents to a degree. It was pretty evident to me that a smoker had walked along here between ten and twenty minutes ago. A little more practice and I might actually be able to track illegal drugs back to the warehouses after all.

"...and Taylor can help you get checked in."

My name pulled me out of my olfactory musings and I realized we'd arrived at the women's shelter on Hopper.

"Ah, right," I managed with barely a pause, "Let's head on in. I'll just meet you for pastries when I'm done, Dad?"

"Sure," he said, then gave Theresa a polite nod and walked up the street.

We had to jump through a few hoops, talking over an intercom and getting buzzed through, filling out some paperwork and such, but it was pretty quick. I even gave a witness statement and left Dad's contact info with a female cop, and I was still on my way to consume a pastry the size of my head within half an hour.


	8. Incandescent

There is something so comforting, so uplifting, so absolutely awesome about the scent of baking bread. And that was before my nose got an upgrade.

I'd spent fifteen minutes finding my way to Cuccio's by sniffing out Dad's trail. I knew the way to the bakery, even from somewhere unfamiliar like the shelter, but it was more fun this way. I was barely halfway there when the heavenly scent of yeast started interfering with Dad's trail, and I was still a good five minutes out when that aroma overwhelmed almost everything else. I hadn't eaten yet, so it was doubly distracting, and I started jogging along.

I saw Dad wave at me through the window as I jogged up. He was just inside at a little two person table with a cup of coffee and a muffin, a paper bag and a cup of something already at the other spot. As I approached, I smelled hot chocolate and coffee, with an undercurrent of a mixed berry muffin and a pastry saturated with butter and dark chocolate. I sat across from Dad and opened the paper bag sitting there. Yep, a dark chocolate croissant.

"Oh, this smells so good, Dad."

He chuckled and toasted me with his coffee cup. "I'm glad. Did the check-in go well?"

"Yep, no problems," I said, then took a huge bite of the pastry. I chewed quickly and swallowed, chasing it with a sip of cocoa before continuing. "Oh, there was a cop there. I left a witness statement with her and gave her the house phone and your name, so expect a call."

"Good," he said after a sip of coffee. "I might stop by in person anyway. I know a couple of guys at the precinct, I can drop a few words in their ears."

I nodded at the idea, but kept eating the grandfather of all croissants. It was even better than I remembered, although back in the day I would split one with mom and we still had half left over for breakfast the next day. Or, more often, a snack later that same day.

A few minutes later and I was searching the crevices of the waxed paper bag for any errant crumbs. As I crumpled the bag into a ball, I noticed Dad's smirk. He still had a good half of his muffin sitting in front of him. "What?"

"Nothing," he said with a laugh, "Just, it's good to see you enjoying yourself. Although, I was a little afraid I'd need to use the Heimlich a couple times there."

He took a sip of coffee, still smiling. Leaning back in his chair, he looked around the little bakery. His smile faded, "Lots of memories here, huh?"

"Yeah, I miss her, too," I said with a sigh. I glanced over at the 'take one/leave one' bookshelf Mom had set up. It was a little crazy to think it was still here. "I think I've had enough for today, but maybe we could come back next week?"

His smile was faint, but it was there. "Yeah, let's head home." He dropped the rest of his muffin back in its bag, and we tossed our trash as we left.

We'd walked barely a block when he glanced around and cleared his throat. "So, about that 'job offer'..."

"Yeah?" I kept my voice down, even though I couldn't see anyone around. There weren't even any cars in sight, but I still wanted to be cautious, especially since the steady breeze at our backs limited my ability to smell anyone nearby.

"I don't want you to rush into this or anything," Dad continued with a shrug, "but I heard that the job comes with admission to Arcadia."

Dad glanced around casually. "I don't know the usual timetable, but with it being almost spring, they might try to push until the fall. I was thinking that we could put something into your contract to fast track the transfer."

I nodded at the thought of being done with Winslow. I would love to be out of that school. Sophia couldn't really hurt me physically, but Emma's taunts still hit home with alarming frequency and losing homework was a pain. Plus, they might eventually try something that revealed my healing ability.

I absently kicked a rock into the empty street as I mulled things over, watching it bounce down the road unimpeded by parked cars. I wound up and kicked another one, bouncing it off the 'No Parking' sign on our side of the street.

"Yeah," I said finally, "I thought of that. I was also thinking that they might have some lawyers to help with actually getting something done at Winslow. Even if that's just implementing an actual anti-bullying policy."

"At the least," Dad almost growled. He cleared his throat and checked his watch before continuing. "It's almost 11:30, we can call and set up a tour for tomorrow, and just rest today? Maybe watch a few movies? We can 'chillax', as I believe the teens say today."

I rolled my eyes at him, but I couldn't completely suppress a grin. "Sure, Dad, that..."

The breeze at our backs swirled fitfully, the powerful aroma of yeast and spices suddenly mixing with scents from all around, including the alley up ahead. The tang of oil, metal, and old blood pinched my nose, along with the pong of rarely washed bodies. One of which I had made a point of memorizing that very morning.

I spun, searching for cover as I put myself between Dad and the alley. There were no parked cars to duck behind, it was too far to the corner of the building.

Three men stepped into view as I grabbed Dad's old leather jacket and threw him against a fire door nearby. The steel door was set maybe six inches into the brick wall, not nearly enough to protect even my rail thin father. I leaned against him as the men opened fire, praying that the combination of the brick and my own body would be enough to protect him.

The roar of heavy pistols overwhelmed me, even more than forty feet away. I felt at least half a dozen impacts, most bouncing off my spine, skull, or ribs to go whining down the street, but one caught me in the flesh of my lower back, just above my hip. I felt it take a sharp turn up and tumble around inside my chest. It... hurt. It was even more painful than Lung burning me for some reason, but at least it didn't pass through me. I braced myself and ignored the pain as more slugs bounced off my bones or burrowed into my flesh. They could shoot me until I came down with lead poisoning for all I cared, as long as nothing hit Dad.

The gunfire cut off, replaced by a rush of footsteps and the growl of a large engine. They were trying to get away.

"Dad! Are you--" I stepped back and froze.

Beneath the heady tang of my own blood, I caught another scent, the scent of Dad's blood. It was strong, too strong to be due to a scrape from the brick. He'd been hit. Shot. They shot him.

 _They shot Dad_.


	9. Red Sky at Morning

_hunt_

Words kept circling my thoughts. Less than words. Impulses, urges, to find the ones who hurt dad, and...

_stalk_

I shook my head and finished using an arm of my sweatshirt as a makeshift bandage around Dad's head. I'd already pressed the other arm into service as a bandage for the bullet wound in his calf, which had been bleeding heavily. Well, more heavily, his head was bleeding plenty, too. It looked like one of the slugs had shattered a brick near Dad's head, and shards had knocked him out. He was breathing, but I couldn't wake him up.

_attack_

First aid. I took a first aid class back in eighth grade. What else do I do?

_tear_  
_shred_  
_hurt_

It was hard to think. It was easier when I had to bind the wounds. When I had something to do. When I had--

My head snapped around at a scent from the corner. Someone was near. No... three people, a man and two women. I stood over Dad, facing the corner, while I watched/heard/smelled everything around me.

_protect_

We won't be ambushed again.

There was a sparkle in the air, a wink of light just above a two story building on the corner. A moment later I caught some whispering from that direction.

"A girl's standing over an old guy on the ground, looking this way." A female voice, young, maybe a teenager. "Lots of blood, but she looks solid, so probably from the geezer."

Another female voice spoke. "See, Victor? Only two people, one on the ground, there's no threat. I can help them."

A brief pause, then a male voice, maybe a little older. "I don't know where this urge came from, dear, but very well. You can do a good deed today. But, I go first, and you stay here and provide overwatch."

"Sure thing, boss," the first voice chirped.

"We want to help," the man's voice called out from around the corner. It was a little odd how his voice reached me easily without him actually shouting at me. Rather, he somehow managed to pitch and project his voice just right to carry cleanly to my ears.

A moment later he stepped around the corner with his hands held casually away from his body. Tall with lean muscles, he was wearing dark slacks, a deep red dress shirt -- and a mask. A short woman in her own mask walked behind him, her peach dress fluttering in the breeze as her one good eye watched me over his shoulder.

"We heard gunshots. I'm Victor, and I have some medical training. I can check him ov--"

"Yes," I interrupted, backing away from Dad. "I slowed the bleeding, but his head... He won't wake up."

The words got jumbled up, sticking in my throat, but Victor simply nodded and strode up to Dad. I watched him closely as he took Dad's pulse, peeled back both eyelids, and generally poked and prodded with skilled efficiency. He seemed to know what he was doing, but I watched every twitch of his hands just in case.

Not that I was ignoring the woman in the meantime. I felt the weight of her gaze on me, heard the small shuffling of her feet and fidgeting of her hands. Finally, she actually spoke.

"How about you?" the woman asked softly. She had kept her distance, far enough that anyone else might have had trouble hearing her question. "Do you need medical attention?"

"No," I said with a quick shake of my head. I ignored a twinge in my neck. "I'll be--"

Maybe shaking my head had dislodged something. Another, sharper twinge in my neck triggered a cough, then a deeper, hacking bark accompanied by a tug in my chest. I turned away from Dad and leaned forward as a wave traveled up from deep in my belly, finally ejecting a bloody lump that chipped the concrete. It skipped twice before settling by the woman's right foot.

Victor stepped away from Dad, a handkerchief appearing in his hand as he took two long steps and swooped down. He snatched up the lump, then considered what he held as he straightened.

"Are you sure you don't want medical attention?" He asked slowly. "Because you just coughed up a 9 millimeter slug."

I pulled the collar of my shirt up to wipe my mouth before answering. "I'm sure. Just help my-- _him_. Just help him. Please."

Victor's eyes lingered on me for a moment, assessing me, before he gave me a sharp nod. "Ok, then."

He stepped back over to Dad. "The bandages look good, for now, but there is one major problem." He lifted Dad's eyelids again. "See how his pupils are different sizes? And they're slow to react to the sunlight?"

He let Dad's eyes slide shut at my nod. "That indicates serious cranial trauma. Possibly just a concussion, but most likely fluid building up inside the skull, putting pressure on his brain."

He stood and looked at me. "Nothing we can do here. They can drill his skull at the hospital to relieve the pressure, though there's no guarantee he'll ever wake up. However..."

The word hung in the air for a long moment. "Yes?"

"Othala can grant regeneration for a time. Regeneration that is slower and more limited than a visit from Panacea, but can accomplish something even she cannot: heal the brain."

I looked to Othala for confirmation, who mustered up a small smile and a timid nod. I knew who they were. Of course I did, I'd studied the local capes before I headed out. Even if I hadn't immediately recognized the masks, the names would have given it away to anyone who lived anywhere in the city. Victor, who can steal any skill, and Othala, who can temporarily grant one of a few powers. I didn't know the full list of powers she could loan out, they didn't exactly hand out supervillain trading cards, but healing was fairly well known.

I didn't know why they offered to heal Dad. Maybe Victor wanted leverage. Maybe it was part of some Empire plan to claim this area as territory. Maybe Othala really did wake up with the urge to do a good deed today.

I didn't care.

I glanced at Victor, then back to Othala. "Please, help him."

Victor slid over, shielding Othala as she moved closer. Kneeling, she placed her hand on Dad's cheek for a few seconds. Standing, she reclaimed her distance from me.

I dropped to my knees as Dad's eyelids fluttered. He groaned, then subsided, but his color was already better. I hadn't even realized it was off, but the part of me screaming that there was something wrong, some damage beyond a bullet wound, started to settle a little.

"You shielded him with your body," Victor murmured. It wasn't a question, and Victor's eyes were wary when I met his gaze. He tilted his head at my back.

I craned my neck around. It looked like someone had played tic tac toe on my back with an ice pick. I had healed, but my clothes were half-chewed bloody shreds. No point in denying it.

"I'm not a very good human shield," I mumbled with a shrug, "too thin."

"Did you--" Othala started to ask me something, but stopped when Victor placed his hand on her arm.

"No questions, dear. Not while she is sans mask." He sketched a shallow bow to me. "We will take our leave now. I recommend calling an ambulance, for the police report and as a verification of my prognosis. Please feel free to mention our presence if you wish. However, I fear it might complicate matters for you with the more... inflexible members of law enforcement. It's up to you."

The pair quickly made their exit, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

_hunt_  
_stalk_  
_attack_

"Tay-Taylor?" Dad's voice was weak, and rough, and beautiful.

_protect_


	10. Tedium

The clock ticked quietly on the wall behind Officer Fredericks as he flipped back through his notes. I sat across from him, holding the table between us in an iron grip to keep myself from doing anything rash.

"All right, let me see if I got this straight," he rumbled quietly. "You helped a woman this morning..."

I managed to suppress a sigh. Somehow.

He'd introduced himself after nurses had shooed me away from the main admissions area. I couldn't really blame them, my arms and legs were caked with dried blood. I had dumped my hoodie and wrapped myself in Dad's coat, so I looked less like an extra from a horror movie, but even so I was frankly lucky that they they believed me when I said it was all Dad's blood.

Officer Fredericks found me as I looked for a nearby chair and said he had a few questions. Which turned into sitting in this little beige room for over half an hour now. Meanwhile, Dad was out there, laying on a hospital bed, alone.

"Right, and I--"

"Then you had breakfast..."

His interruptions were getting annoying. I took a deep breath and squeezed the table, struggling for control.

"Yes, and--"

"Then you were walking home, and a random group of guys shot at you..."

Dad needed me. What if he woke up and I wasn't there? I needed to get this over with.

"Not random. I recognized--"

"Then you carried your father seven blocks until you encountered a police cruiser..."

I continued speaking for a moment, Fredericks talking over me until I shut my mouth and sat back with a grunt. I didn't say anything when he stopped talking, tracking the second hand on the wall clock over the door behind him instead. This was supposed to be a few questions, just fifteen or twenty minutes.

Fredericks waited thirty seconds for me to respond as I maintained my death lock on the table. I tried to convince myself that I really didn't want to see what happened if i punched his pasty face with my super reinforced fist. I would storm out of here before I let that happen. I would have left already, but I couldn't risk being arrested and separated from Dad for even longer.

Finally, he shrugged and leaned back. "This'll go a lot easier for you if you tell me the truth."

I was distracted by the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Two people, one wearing boots and the other either barefoot or wearing slippers, stopped outside the door.

"Right now, things don't add up. Why carry your dad, why not call 911?"

_Because a bullet went through my cell phone, you idiot. I gave you the pieces._

Another set of footsteps in normal shoes approached the door. There was a brief conversation, the words muddled by all the other noises out there.

"And, carrying him seven blocks? Your old man's thin, but not that thin."

I wasn't paying much attention to Fredericks anymore. I recognized one of the voices outside, one of the doctors that I'd overheard examining Dad before I tried to be helpful and "answer a few questions." The door began to open behind Fredericks.

"You say he was shot an hour ago, yet the doctors say the wound's been healing for days, maybe a week. Why wait a week after shooting him?"

The world seemed to tilt for a moment as I looked down on Fredericks. His mouth snapped shut and fear spiced the air as we locked eyes.

" _Officer_ ," a male voice snapped, "the PRT is taking over this investigation. You can leave now."

Over Fredericks’ shoulder I saw a man in a sleek red costume and mask in the doorway, his hand still on the doorknob. Behind him was a petite woman with glowing lines of circuitry tracing over her skintight blue costume. I recognized Assault and Battery, and Doctor Andersen behind both of them. I spared just enough attention to absently evaluate them all and dismiss them as threats.

Fredericks didn’t say anything as he snatched his notebook and cap off the floor and fled the room. I followed the sound of his footsteps as he headed down the hall, the echoes in the air and faint vibrations through the floor sufficient to track him nearly all the way to the main doors.

“Excuse me, miss,” said Battery as she ducked around Assault and into the room. Assault motioned for the doctor to stay outside for the moment and closed the door.

My head tracked back to the heroine standing before me. “I need to get back to my Dad,” I said, moving around the remains of the table.

I paused. Looking down, I realized that I had about a quarter of the table’s surface clutched in each hand, the rest laying shattered on the floor.

“Oops."

I had to take a moment and actually concentrate before I could uncurl my fists and let those pieces join the rest of the table. I took a moment to massage my wrists, quickly working up to my elbows. Somehow, I’d kept my blades sheathed through that bit of temper, but a few muscles deep in my forearms had cramped up from the effort. “Sorry about the table, but I really do have to get out to my dad.”

“I know,” Battery replied as I stepped around her. “We just have a few questions first.”

I froze. Pivoting slowly, I opened my mouth to reply when Assault swung wide the door and stepped back. “No, questions can wait, go see your dad.”

My jaw snapped shut so swiftly I think my teeth sparked like flint. Giving Assault a nod of thanks, I strode out the door and down the hall to where I’d last seen Dad.

Rounding the corner, I almost ran into Dr. Andersen. “Doctor! Sorry, I was just..."

Dad wasn’t in his little alcove in the large admitting area behind Dr. Andersen. With the swirl of people, bodily fluids, machines, and cleaning supplies filling the air, I could barely get a whiff that he’d ever been here, much less find a trail to follow.

“Wh-where’s my dad?”

"Oh, yes, dear," the white haired man turned and pointed at a long window along one wall down the hallway behind me. "They can point you in the right direction at the nurse's station."

I headed down the hall, dodging people as I went. The eyes sliding off me made me glad all over again for Dad's jacket. They probably wouldn't be so calm if they could see what was left of the back of my shirt.

"Excuse me," I called as I approached the window, catching a nurse's attention. "Daniel Hebert's room? I'm his daughter."

The sturdy woman hummed as a keyboard rattled under her fingers. "Yes, he was moved to the fourth floor. Take the elevator at the end of the hall, and a nurse on the fourth floor can help you."

Assault and Battery trailed behind me as I headed for the elevator. I looked around after pushing the call button, but we seemed to be momentarily unnoticed in the bustle. "So, did Miss Militia send you?"

I couldn't see their eyes, but the way they glanced at each other told me the answer before Battery spoke.

"No, the hospitals are common stops on our patrol routes. We ask every time through about anything unusual that came up."

The elevator chimed and we entered as the doors opened. Assault took up the thread of conversation. "The doctor told us about your dad being shot, and how the healing didn't match up. Sudden healing is a possible indicator of a new parahuman."

I nodded as the doors opened, revealing the nurse station for the floor straight across the hall. "Hello, I'm looking for Daniel Hebert, my dad."

A broad young man pointed to my left. "Room 421. Visiting hours are now til four, then six to eight."

I headed left, finding 421 halfway down the hallway. Inside, Dad rested peacefully on one of the two beds. The other bed was empty at the moment, so I closed the door as soon as the heroes followed me in.

"We can talk after I check on Dad," I said quickly as I headed over to his bed.

"Who--" Dad croaked, his eyes flickering open before locking onto me. "Taylor! Oh, thank god, are you ok?"

He started fumbling with his sheet, trying to get out of bed. "They wouldn't tell me anything, just asking the same damn questions."

"No, Dad, don't get up," I said, holding his hands so he wouldn't pull at his IV. "I'm all good. They had some questions for me, too, but I'm here now."

"What happened? I remember the bullets, but then it gets all mixed up."

"I was planning on getting to that, and hopefully I'll be able to save time and answer a few questions for the heroes here.

"First, though," I said, glancing over my shoulder, "do you two know about Lung last night?"

They both nodded, Assault saying, "They're keeping most of the details under wraps, but someone named Rattle incapacitated him long enough for Armsmaster to sedate him."

"Ratel," I corrected Assault's pronunciation, then shrugged. "But yeah, that was me."

There was a long, surprised pause. I chose to be flattered and continued talking, "I heal up really fast. Anyway, my dad and I helped a woman get away from a bad situation this morning, but her ex took issue and followed us or something. I smelled the guy in time to mostly shield Dad, but I couldn't quite block everything. He got shot in the leg and some shrapnel hit him in the head. I wrapped up his wounds the best I could with the sleeves of my sweatshirt, then tried to call 911, but the phone Miss Militia gave me had been hit, so I carried Dad until I found some cops to call an ambulance."

Dad squeezed my hand, pulling my gaze back to him. "I think that's enough for now," he rasped at the heroes. "She gave a report to Miss Militia this morning about Lung. If that's all, I'd like some time to rest."

Assault turned toward the door, but Battery took a step forward. "There is still the question of why your wound seems a week old."

"Oh, right," I said after a moment, glancing between the pair of heroes and my father. "Um, good Samaritans?"


	11. Non-Canon: Got Guts?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was entertaining a different path for Danny, one where he was kidnapped as leverage against Taylor. Here's a little scene from Taylor's search for her father.

"Ya got guts," Hookwolf said as he stretched his shoulders and chest, thrilling at the sensation of smooth steel stitching in and out of his skin. He let his power settle, plating his torso and arms in spikes and slabs of metal, and pinned the slip of a girl with his gaze. "So I'll give ya one chance to walk away."

It was rare for anyone to stand up to him anymore. If only it was someone a little more challenging. Oh, the girl looked fierce, her clothes half burnt and her face masked by soot and dried blood, but she wasn't exactly intimidating when his bicep was bigger than her head. Even if she was as skilled as Cricket, he'd eventually win on stamina. He never tired of fighting. He might grow bored with an opponent, but his endless steel meant he never grew tired.

"I _want_ to walk away," the girl said in a tight voice, then pointed past him, down the street he and his guys stood on. "That way. Someone was kidnapped by a fake ambulance. I'm tracking them. I don't want to fight, I don't care what you're doing right now. Just let me through."

She faced thirty of his guys, Cricket, and Hookwolf himself, and still she didn't take the chance to back down. She didn't beg or nothing, didn't bluster or make demands or talk down to him, just stood her ground and looked him in the eye like an equal.

He looked around as a few of the guys chuckled, but it was a nervous sound. The guys were on edge. They knew that only the stupid, or the stupidly powerful, challenged Hookwolf, and they weren't about to assume she was stupid just 'cause she was a chick. A few rounds in the ring with Cricket had taught them that a woman could easily kick their asses up between their ears.

"Ya had your chance, girl. Cricket, don't hurt her too bad," he said with a shrug, then turned to a jumped-up pickup truck parked half on the sidewalk by a ruined storefront.

"Rest'ya, get back to clearing out this store!" Reaching into the bed of the pickup, he pulled out a flare and shouted, "then we make sure they don't slink back here like rats."

The boys gave a ragged cheer as they went back to work. Hookwolf, though, stayed by the truck and kept an eye on Cricket as she walked up to the girl, swinging her kamas to limber up. He wasn't really worried about Cricket, she could handle herself, but only a fool left an unknown enemy at his back.

The girl shook her head and muttered something, then took two quick steps forward. Cricket brought her left arm up across her body defensively as she lashed out with the kama in her right hand. The girl flicked her hand, something dull white catching the late afternoon sun before a crimson spray coated her in fresh blood from the waist up. Hookwolf watched Cricket's kama -- and her severed right hand -- spin lazily through the air before landing in the gutter.

Cricket was tough, and stubborn. She didn't go into shock, she didn't hesitate, she reacted immediately with a blast of sound that left the unknown girl reeling long enough to bring her remaining kama around in a decapitating blow.

Only for the blade to stick in the girl's spine.

Whether due to blood loss or surprise, Cricket gripped her kama a moment too long. A quick uppercut, another strange flicker of dull white, and Cricket fell to her knees. She curled around the stumps of her arms as she knelt on the asphalt, pressing them against her belly in an instinctive attempt to staunch the bleeding. A moment later her left hand landed by her knee with a soft thump, barely audible in the sudden frozen silen

The girl walked forward, the blade still lodged through her neck. Her lips moved as she approached Hookwolf, but only bloody froth emerged. She paused, her eyes flicking down, then with a gurgling sigh she reached up and wrenched the blade from her throat. She watched her own blood drip from the blade for a long second, then dropped it at Hookwolf's feet. Her chest rattled as she took a breath, then looked up at him.

"Help her," she gurgled, blood dripping from the corners of her mouth.

Hookwolf shook his head at the crazy bitch as he stepped around her to help Cricket. He popped the top of the flare in his hand to ignite it as he strode over to where Cricket had fallen to her back. Crouching quickly, he held her down and pressed the spitting fire to the stub of each arm to cauterize them. She passed out after the first arm, but kept breathing. Cricket was a tough bitch, she'd survive until Othala could get to her.

Hookwolf looked up at the back of the bitch even tougher than Cricket. She calmly walked through his men with her head high, then started running down the street, her bare feet slapping the pavement.


	12. Midnight Run

The beat of my footsteps echoed off the walls of the narrow street, forming a staccato counterpoint as stoops jutted out closer, or open windows absorbed the sharp strikes of my feet on pavement. The distant grumbles and wails of the city threatened to intrude, but right here was quiet. The crisp, briny midnight air accentuated the relative silence, and I felt my nervous energy radiate out like excess heat. I wanted to stay by Dad in that hospital room, even as the cool night air flowed over me I had a nagging urge in the back of my brain tugging me back to the hospital to protect him. But I couldn't, not right now. The smells, the sounds, the small room with nothing to do. Every minute sitting there dripped on my head, adding up over the hours.

I'd had a small reprieve after the heroes were called away by a report of Hookwolf, well, being Hookwolf. They'd barely had time to give me a replacement PRT phone and sign me up for a tour of the Rig and some power testing tomorrow before they were called away. Then I sat with Dad for a bit, until he decided to almost push me out the door at four. The nurse backed his play, telling me to come back at six.

I used the time to run home and shower off the dried blood. I put on fresh clothes and double bagged my old rags until could burn them. I wasn't about to drop them in the trash, since I really didn't want blood soaked clothes falling out of the trash can at just the wrong moment like a scene from a bad television show.

I grabbed a bit of cash on the way out the door and was sitting on the bus back to the hospital when I realized I'd forgotten to eat anything while I was home. I had a serious craving for both protein and something sweet, so I grabbed two Double Ugly burgers and a chocolate shake. Does a body good.

Damn it, now I was hungry again.

I paused at a beat up bench, putting foot up to stretch out my leg while I took a look around. Street light functionality was hit or miss in this neighborhood, but light was beaming from a bodega on the next corner. This far into ABB territory, Merchant hits were rare, so the place was probably open all night. If they were paid up with the ABB.

I walked down the street, letting my muscles cool down after my run. Probably unnecessary with how my body worked now, but it wouldn't hurt.

I was contemplating what candy bar I wanted -- probably a king size Snickers -- when something caught my attention. More accurately, a lack of something. Almost all sound had suddenly cut off a short distance behind me.

I turned to see a fog of shadows around the bench I'd just left, a fog that swallowed all sound as well. I inhaled, but didn't catch any threatening scents. I took a few steps back, prepared to dash away, when the fog retreated into a nearby alley. It revealed a young blond woman seated on the far end of the bench with a box in her lap. A lavender mask shielded her identity, while her body was outlined in a very tight outfit of violet and lavender, with black gloves and boots. A stylized Egyptian eye was traced in black on the pale purple fabric clinging to her chest.

A wide smile bloomed, teeth somehow gleaming the limited illumination cast by the lonely streetlight overhead. Maybe it was part of her power, "super powered teeth" or something.

The toothy grin vanished briefly, a more mundane smile slowly replacing it. It was slightly marred by a sly curl to her lips, but not quite as disconcerting. She opened her mouth, then paused, her head tilting as facial muscles twitched and her eyes sparkled in the dark of her mask. It was quick, less than a second, then the smile returned and she reached down the length of the bench to pat the end near me.

"Don't worry," she said, "just a brief chat. No strings attached." I boggled a moment at her voice. I'd expected a high pitched, bubblegum quality to go with her California girl looks, but her voice was more of an alto.

Her smile edged toward that toothy grin before calming down again. "C'mon, SliceNDice, have a seat, I'm just here to thank you for saving my team's bacon last night." At that, she shook the box in her lap, eliciting a soft shuffling sound from within, then placed it on the bench and slid it down my way.

I glanced down. It seemed to be a metal lunchbox with Alexandria on the front. Maybe it was bait, keep my attention on the girl or the box so I'd be surprised by an attack from another direction. If so, they'd underestimated my senses. While she'd been talking, I'd been cataloging the scents and sounds of the night. Nothing out of place so far.

It could still be a trap. I hadn't detected her, or her team, until she was within half a block of me, so I shouldn't get too arrogant. Fortunately, though, I didn't have to protect Dad at the moment. If need be, I could slice her up like Lung.

She blinked and her smile faltered. How interesting. I slowly sat on the edge of the bench, unable to ignore how that placed my back to the alley where I'd last seen the shadow fog.

"Interesting name you used," I said slowly. "Frequent the PHO forums?"

Her lips parted as my eyes landed on her chest. "Of course," I preempted her, "You're 'All Seeing Eye'."

She tensed at the interruption before her smile returned, slightly dimmed. "Yes, although right now you can call me Tattletale. When you didn't reply I grew concerned that you'd been detained."

"Detained?" I asked, letting the word roll around in the night while I thought. "Why would that concern you?"

"Ah," she said, her smile refreshed. "Interesting question. Or, question _s_. It would _be_ a concern because the Protectorate can play fast and loose with the rules sometimes. It would concern _me_ because I owe you one."

She paused with an arch of the eyebrow, air thick with her anticipation of my curiosity. "Ok, I'll bite," I said finally. "Why do you think you owe me?"

"You stopped Lung before he could go after my friends and me. The Undersiders."

"You're --"

"-- the kids he was talking about, yes." She tilted her head briefly, eyes flickering, before she continued, "Hey, it doesn't make you any less of a hero, Ratel. You thought you were protecting children, and almost died in the process. I saw your healing in action, pretty incredible stuff, but it wouldn't have been enough, would it?"

The question was apparently rhetorical, since she just kept talking. "And you knew it wasn't enough."

"Oh," she raised a finger to cut me off before I even opened my mouth, "you had a good plan. Go in with shock and awe, then try to run away. But..."

Another twitch of the eyebrow. "I see. You didn't know it was Lung until after the alley exploded, and you were already stuck there. Don't worry, you would have made the same choice."

The confidence in me was both flattering and aggravating. Yes, I'd like to think I would have chosen to fight Lung to protect kids, the certain death sentence it may have seemed to be, but the presumption that she knew me well enough to state that I would do so rubbed me the wrong way.

I sampled the soft breeze wafting out of the alley behind me, which somehow didn't touch the inky fog I occasionally saw coiling in the shadows. The various aromas had been swirling around the bench while the girl talked. I counted three individuals, two male and one female, along with four canines of some sort. I'd say dogs, but there was some blood and bone -- very fresh blood and bone -- that I didn't know how to categorize.

I shook my head. I could deal as needed, and right now I needed to concentrate on this strange conversation. "I --"

"-- need to get back to the hospital, of course." Tattletale smiled again, and again she skirted the edge of showing far too many teeth. She pointed at the lunchbox in my lap. "I was always taught to be prompt with my thank you notes. Two grand as thanks from the team, and a special thank you just from me. A few notes you might find enlightening before you see the Protectorate tomorrow."

"How did --"

"I'm psychic," she interrupted me with an airy shrug and a chuckle. "It's what I do."

She kept smiling as she casually stood, keeping both hands in view. "I'll talk to you later. Just reply to me on PHO if you have any questions."

She stepped into the alley, the strange fog surging for a moment before slowly clearing. Within about thirty seconds I could see straight through to the other end of the empty alley. I popped open the clasp on the lunchbox, taking quick peek. Sure enough, a small wad of bills was inside, along with a few sheets of paper. I grabbed the cash but left the paper inside when I closed the lid and stood up. I can check on the notes she left when I get back to the hospital. After that rather surreal, one sided conversation, I could use a little more than a king size candy bar. After all, I had two thousand bucks in my pocket.

I was getting myself a whole pint of ice cream.

As I approached the corner, it became apparent that the bodega fancied itself a supermercado. It carried not only booze, chips, and soda, but basics like toilet paper and mayonnaise. This was encouraging, if it sold sundries, then I had high hopes for the ice cream selection.

The door chimed as I entered the brightly lit interior. I spared a friendly nod for the half awake college kid at the register and headed for the wall of glass doors in the back of the shop. There, behind the glass, I found my quarry: racks of ice cream in quart containers. A rather impressive selection, too. I saw rocky road, cookie dough, mint chip… huh. There was a knock-off gourmet ice cream imaginatively called "Mouse Tracks" with a cartoon of Mouse Protector on the front. Chocolate ice cream and a creamy mint ribbon, with pretzel swords and little chocolate covered caramel mouse ears.

I was debating the novelty of "Mouse Tracks" versus the tried and true awesomeness of rocky road when my stomach started roiling. A moment later, my heart started skipping beats in sync with a staccato rattle from the front windows. A car with a ridiculously loud engine rolled up to the curb outside, wielding an even louder sound system. Before the windows could shatter -- or my heart could go into full arrhythmia -- the sonic assault ceased and two men entered the store.

The shorter of the two was a rough character, but that wasn't unusual these days. He sported a patchy beard and a sandy comb-over while wearing a beat up leather jacket and a pair of off jeans that could probably stand up by themselves.

But he was positively manscaped compared to his lanky friend. Greasy bits of hair peaked out from under a dark knit cap, and his body was wrapped in bits of flannel and denim ready to disintegrate at any moment. The lack of physical grooming paled in comparison to the stench I caught as he made his entrance. He, and his aroma, approached the beer cooler to my left in fits and starts, his fingers snapping and feet tapping to five different songs only he could hear.

I may not find scents repugnant anymore, but I didn't want any of it clinging to me. With a sigh, I grabbed a quart of each ice cream and headed away from Zippy the meth head. Looping around the end of the aisle, I headed past the cereal to the register up front where Zippy's little buddy was picking out a couple packs of cigarettes.

A pungent musk tickled my nose moments before Zippy passed me in a syncopated shuffle with a six pack in each hand. Defying my expectations, the short guy dropped a couple of crumpled twenties on the counter and actually paid for everything. He lit up before they were even out the door, a lingering twist of tobacco smoke pinching my nose.

I shook my head as I dropped the ice cream on the counter. I peeled a twenty out of my pocket as a frenetic laugh from outside caught my attention.

"…ly banging away on Darla," Zippy almost shouted with another laugh as he crawled through the open passenger side window head first.

"That was his last girl, fucktard," his partner said as he opened the car door. "And his current bitch ran off and ain't returning his calls, 'member?"

A few words were swallowed up by the car door closing, then Shorty's rasp continued, "She'll come crawling back from that fucking shelter for another hit of the good stuff pretty soon."

The words rattled around in my head without meaning for a moment as I got my change from the sleepy cashier. Then my stomach dropped through the floor as the large engine coughed and growled.

The riot of music had masked the engine as they arrived, but now I could hear it clearly. And I recognized that engine.

I'd heard it this morning.

I dashed through the door as they peeled out. I sprinted down the street after them, but they raced away, music blasting. I almost tripped over a large hunk of crumbled curb in the street, so I grabbed it and launched it at their rear window. It had to weigh a good thirty pounds, it'll crash into their car, and they'll get angry and come back to confront me, and I'll have them and they'll tell me where the others are _and they'll never hurt dad again_.

The chunk of concrete sailed through the air in a perfect arc for almost a city block -- and shattered on the asphalt, a foot short of the speeding car.

My frustrated roar sent hundreds of tiny bodies fleeing down the nearby alleys in panic. I stood, panting, as distant howls responded to my challenge.

I stood there panting for a moment longer, sifting scents and sounds for something I could track. Finally, I trudged back to the bodega and grabbed my ice cream. I was going to need both quarts tonight.


	13. Stomachache

The first thing I did, once I got back to the hospital, was find a spoon and eat the ice cream. All the ice cream. I didn't have a choice, really. I mean, I couldn’t let it go to waste, and there weren't any freezers. At least, none they would let me use. So, I had to eat it all before it melted. The rocky road was distilled awesomeness, of course, but the Mouse Tracks fell short of expectations. That's not to say it was hideous, but the chocolate/caramel/mint combo wasn't the best. Maybe a different ratio would have improved it.

I learned two important facts by consuming that much ice cream. First, my regeneration meant I didn't have to worry about an ice cream headache. Second, I still digested food normally, which meant eating two whole quarts of ice cream in one sitting was maybe not such a good idea. Although, it did distract me from the events of last night.

Which, of course, immediately reminded me of last night. It was about time to go through the information from Tattletale. I leaned back in the guest chair by Dad's bed with a sigh, adjusted the little lamp in the corner, and popped open the lunchbox. Unfolding the packet, I found six sheets of paper. Three sheets were duplex photocopies of pages 37 and 38, 39 and 40, and then 93 and 94 of a PRT manual, which seemed to concentrate on PRT and Protectorate oversight of the Wards. The other sheets of paper were copy and pasted PHO posts about Shadow Stalker's days as a vigilante. I'm not sure what Tattletale was trying to tell me, but I was left with a few questions to ask Miss Militia later today.

Once I skimmed over the papers, I tried to doze a bit. I woke up once an hour as the nurses woke Dad through the night to check his concussion, but I let him fall back sleep when possible so he could heal. He was a little restless sometimes, and I'm sure he would have wanted to know about my encounters, but it's not like either of us could do much at three or four in the morning.

I gave up on dozing a little before dawn and tried to watch some TV. There wasn't anything good on, so I ended up on a news channel. I'd caught the local news with dad after dinner, which included a brief notice that Lung had been captured by the PRT. The morning news had the same information, which was to say, not much. The PRT release didn't even mention Armsmaster, claiming that the details were confidential pending further investigation. I wasn't mentioned either, beyond a note that Lung was fighting another parahuman prior to his capture. I'm not sure why I was omitted, there was a video and all sorts of speculation on PHO, but it was another question for Miss Militia.

My ruminations on the reasoning behind the PRT's minimal press release were interrupted by Dad waking up a bit past seven. I managed to keep quiet about my nocturnal activities until after the nurse brought in some fruit and oatmeal for his breakfast.

At which point everything spilled out.

"So... you were hungry and restless, went for a jog, and ended up chatting with a teenage villain?" Dad's tone was dry. Fortunately, he seemed to find something humorous in the encounter.

"Yep."

"And she claimed that, by fighting Lung, you saved her? And her friends?"

"Basically."

"And then she have you some cash and," he paused to glance down at the folded documents he held in his lap, "papers, that she claimed would help you at your meeting today?"

"She called them 'enlightening', I believe."

"Uh-huh," he murmured with a nod. "And, she called you Ratel."

Yea-what?" I blinked for a moment, thinking back over the conversation with Tattletale. "Huh, I guess she did. She called me by the name that PHO bestowed on me first, then... Yeah, she called me Ratel. Why?"

"Well, have you shared that name with anyone other than Protectorate heroes?"

"No, I haven't. So," I drew the word out as I mused for a moment, my gaze wandering over the ceiling before settling back on Dad. “So, how did she know about the name? I watched the news this morning. They had a release from the PRT, the one from last night, and it didn't mention me. Was there something from the PRT that I missed?"

"You can look online, but I don't think so." Dad closed his eyes and waved the papers in my direction. "That may be her real 'thank you' message. These pages may have just been an excuse to tell you that there's a leak in the PRT."

I looked at him for a few seconds, then shook my head. "When did you become such a sneaky old man?"

Dad's chuckle was interrupted by a groan and a scowl. "Don't make me laugh, Taylor. Makes my head hurt."

"Sorry," I said as I held his hand. "Anything I can do? I'd try giving you a scalp massage, but they still haven't removed that bandage."

"No," he murmured. "Thank you, though."

"Try to sleep a bit, we can talk about all this later."

"Ok," he responded, barely even a whisper.

I held his hand while he dozed, his breathing slow and deep. A nurse came in to check on Dad, but didn't wake him this time. Then I spent some time thinking about Dad's theory.

It made some sense. Quite a bit, really, but I think Dad underestimated the importance of the papers. I didn't know Tattletale's full reasoning, but the papers all related to the Wards and their oversight in some way, so I'd be asking questions in that direction and keeping my eyes open. Along with my ears and nose.


	14. Interlude A - Miss Militia

Miss Militia took another slow sip of coffee and sighed. It was perfect, as usual. Colin did good work.

She didn't need the caffeine boost, but the coffee wasn't for a boost. It was part of framing the day, marking this time as a time to prepare. A few minutes to stop and clear her mind, to think of nothing but the complexities of the dark brew in her mug, and not be reviewing the past day or planning the day that just dawned. She didn't have the demarcation of sleep, to let go and allow her subconscious mind filter experiences without conscious direction, so years ago she had established this time to meditate. Actually meditating drew attention and questions, but taking fifteen minutes to enjoy a cup of coffee was ubiquitous, so she took a "coffee break" and would focus her conscious mind on the liquid in her mug as a way of letting the thoughts on a lower level settle themselves.

She drained the mug. With final sigh, she opened her eyes to once more observe the bustle of the cafeteria. It was shift start, so there was a rush from the outgoing night shift stopping by to grab breakfast or one more mug of the best coffee in the city.

"Hey, lady," Assault called out with a wave. He headed over to her table in the corner with a loaded plate, Battery close behind. A quick kick sent a chair skittering over to back up to the wall, then he dropped into it and started digging in to the pile of eggs, bacon, and hashbrowns on his plate.

"Really?" Battery complained as she set her own plate on the table. "Could you be any more disgusting?"

"Oh, Puppy," he replied through a full mouth, "you should know better than that by now."

A small grunt of dismay was her only reply as Battery scooted her chair up to the table and started eating. Miss Militia shot her a look of commiseration.

Assault broke the moment of silence with a barely muffled belch. "Whew, that really hit the spot. A bit of coffee, and I might almost feel human again.

"Having the morning shift and a night shift is almost worse than a back to back double shift," he continued with a stretch, "although, it was nice to have a bit of... relaxation in the afternoon."

He smiled at Battery, who stiffened and blushed. "Well," Miss Militia said quickly as she pushed away from the table and stood, "I have to head out myself, and-- Oh!"

She looked down at the two heroes. "I didn't get to follow up after the encounter with Hookwolf, but you met Ratel at the hospital, correct?"

"Ah," Assault said, drawing it out, "yes! The girl. Young, thin, looks like a stiff breeze would knock her over?"

Battery shook her head. "You sure she was the one who took out Lung? I mean, she wasn't really all that thin, I could see the tone in her arms, but unless she's a shaker..."

She trailed off as Miss Militia shook her head. "Not a shaker, but she took him out, all right. I wanted to get your impressions before you head out since she's coming in this morning."

"Open," Assault said immediately. "Her emotions were on display. She was so angry at that dickhead interrogating her she busted that table, but then perked right up at seeing her dad, and then was obviously embarrassed and uncertain over Othala healing him."

"Eh," Battery considered, her fork waving in the air. "You're being too generous. I think it was less that she was open with us and more that she couldn't restrain herself. Which could be bad, if she meets up with someone less deserving of a lethal lobotomy."

Miss Militia stiffened, her gaze armor piercing. "You didn't mention that to her, did you?"

"What? No," Battery said, hands up protectively. "I'm letting Piggot, PR, and IA work that out."

"Hoo, yeah," Assault agreed with a firm nod. "We're staying clear of that."

Miss Militia's stance softened. "Good, I wanted to talk with her in person about it. Speaking of which, I've got a full morning. I'll let you two have a good day... relaxing."

There was a beat as she smirked and turned to walk away, then Assault's booming laugh cut through the cafeteria racket.

* * *

Miss Militia waited by the reception desk as the clock ticked up to eleven o'clock. She'd been in the lobby for twenty minutes, taking the opportunity to meet the public and sign autographs. Long enough for people to become a little more accustomed to her presence. So, when a thin teen with a long, dark braid stepped up to the desk, it wasn't remarkable that she approached to "greet a fan." A moment of conversation, then they headed toward an elevator.

The doors slid closed, but the elevator didn't move. "Just to confirm, these clothes are from a random thrift store?"

"Bought with cash," Taylor said with a nod. "And in colors I don't usually wear, like you recommended."

"Do you need a temporary mask?"

"No, thank you," Taylor replied as she pulled a handful of black silk from her pocket. She draped it over the top of her head, covering her eyes and nose in the front and falling to her shoulders in the back. She adjusted it a bit, and Miss Militia saw there were eye holes in the fabric. A deft fold and twist later and Taylor brought the front corners around to knot them behind her head. "I got this as part of a pirate costume at the store. Probably not so great in a fight, but I like how it changes the look of my hair."

"Looks good," Miss Militia said with a smile, then pressed a button by the door.

"If you don't mind," Miss Militia said as the elevator started to descend, "the current plan is to get the testing out of the way first, then you can get a bit of a tour and meet the Wards."

"Oh, that sounds fine," Taylor replied absently.

"Good. Before we start, how is your father?"

"He's doing well, thank you." There was a bit of energy in her reply, but she immediately withdrew again. "I, uh, hope letting Othala heal him won't be a problem?"

"No," Miss Militia answered immediately. "It might have saved his life, or at least prevented a protracted hospital stay. Don't worry about that."

"Oh, good. Victor said that there might be problems with law enforcement, but trying to keep quiet seemed like a bad idea," she shuffled her feet a moment, then continued more quietly, "And just more trouble then it was worth."

Miss Militia smiled beneath her scarf as the door slid open. "It usually is. This way, please."

A short walk down the hall to the left brought them to a set of tall double doors. She pushed open the right hand door, then held it open for Taylor.

Taylor stopped just inside the door and stared at the distant walls, then tilted her head back to look up at the ceiling thirty feet up. "Wow, this is huge! It's bigger than the Winslow gym."

"It is roomy, although smaller than the Protectorate indoor testing facility out on the Rig. Not as complete, either, but you don't have Blaster, Shaker, or high end Brute abilities to test today," she said, then paused, still holding the door. "You don't, right?"

"Uh, no," Taylor said slowly. "We went over that yesterday."

"Yes, we did," Miss Militia said with a tilt of her head. "If we'd talked on Sunday, though, before Lung, you wouldn't have known about any blades. That's a case of stress causing more abilities to surface. It's rare enough that I doubt you'll have it happen again, but with your dad getting shot I wanted to check."

"Oh, yeah," Taylor said as she shrank at the mention of Lung, glancing at the floor as she quietly continued, "that makes sense."

"Now," Miss Militia drew the word out as she let the door close behind them. She mustered up a smile for the slim teen. "Let's get on to the testing.

"We'll be starting in the weight room, through this door," she continued, leading Taylor over to the first of two doors in the right-hand wall. "Fairly normal, basically a stress test you'd get at a doctor's appointment, followed by some weight lifting."

Miss Militia pulled the door open, Taylor stepping through to find three machines with "Nautilus" emblazoned on their sides and half a dozen treadmills. A small group of men in white coats surrounded one of the treadmills, fiddling with wires and tubes radiating from carts nearby.

"Good morning," Miss Militia called out as she motioned Taylor over to the cluster of scientists. Most continued working, but one looked up at Miss Militia's words.

"Ah, Miss Militia! Good morning," the tall, wiry figure said as he stepped away from the machines and held out his hand to Taylor. "And you must be Ratel. Pleased to meet you, I'm Dr Sutter."


	15. Interlude B - Shadow Stalker

Sophia just about laughed herself sick when she found out how easy it was to ghost up to Piggy's office. With her power, it was just about the easiest room to get to in the entire PRT building. Yeah, it only worked because she had access to the Wards dorm rooms, but it still made her chuckle.

Once she was in the dorm area, the emergency exit at the far end took her through two fire doors that she went through without a problem, as long as she stayed away from the alarm sensors in the door latch. Between those two doors was a heavy steel door with no handle that simply had to be investigated. Turns out, it was an emergency elevator shaft that ran down the spine of the building from the Director's office straight down to the sub basement. There was an emergency ladder running up the side of the shaft, which was bitch and a half to climb, but she got some great cardio from it. And it was worth the sweat to listen in on Piggy's conversations. The little elevator car didn't have any electronics in it -- well, except for a chunky phone handset straight out of an 80's TV show -- so she just ghosted through the side and listened through the door. There was, like, zero sound proofing, and it must have been right behind where Piggy sat, because Sophia could hear every word she grunted out in her endless meetings.

She'd actually gotten pretty bored with all the meetings. Now, she usually only went up if she thought they were going to talk about her. But, she'd heard something from one of the PRT grunts. They usually loosened up more around Wards than around the Protectorate, probably 'cause they weren't expecting kids to actually pay attention, and Sophia heard one mentioning Lung choking on his own blood. Hanging around nearby, she'd found out that someone had sliced Lung's face and arm off, then Assmaster had foamed him, drugged him to the gills, and brought him in. This was something interesting, and worth the extra cardio getting up a dozen floors by ladder. Well, mostly. By jumping and ghosting for a bit, she could get it done faster and with maybe half the sweat.

"--ing with Rattle?" Piggy oinked as Sophia went solid just behind the door to her office.

"She pronounces it with a 'd'," There's Militia's voice, "sort of 'ra-dell'. It's an Afrikaans word for the honey badger."

Piggy grunted. "Why didn't she just use Honey Badger, then?"

"It's taken, by a woman in California. And Badger and Wolverine are both taken by Canadian capes."

Sophia heard another grunt. "Why does everybody have to be unique? So the other Honey Badger is in California, wouldn't that be better than a name nobody on this side of the Atlantic can pronounce?"

"It's... her choice, Director."

"Yeah, yeah. Moving on, what happened with power testing?"

Miss Militia cleared her throat, then used the 'official voice' she used when reading off of something. Sophia could almost picture the woman's fake military posture. She shook her head. Such a kickass power, but the woman kept pretending that sheep were worth all this work without actually earning it.

"Strength testing showed far above average, but only technically Brute range when considered against her weight of 127 pounds. She might keep getting stronger, though. She self reported a bench press of 280 pounds and a squat of 425, but today managed 358 and 634 pounds respectively. It might be mis-reporting, or perhaps due to the equipment she was using, but I recommend we encourage regular testing."

"Fine, put it in the calendar. What else?"

"Well, she has two blades in each hand," there was a rustle of paper, then Militia continued, "as you see here. They are very sharp, and so far they have resisted any form of damage. There are details on the cutting tests in the report, summarized as 'yes'. They tested steel, concrete, even a quartz rod, and the blades cut everything without taking a scratch. Additionally, the blades are completely opaque to every scan the team performed. They've put a request in for specialized equipment for scans and for cutting tests, and another request for Colin's time."

There was another snort from Piggy. "Good luck."

"Finally," another shuffling of paper, "body scans showed that her bones are also opaque to everything they tried. The current theory is that the blades are the same material as her bones. As such, we can't get samples or information about the composition of her bones."

"The scans did discover something, though," Militia continued. "It seems that every major joint in her body has developed interlocking growths. There is some play in them, or she wouldn't be able to move, but these growths seem like they were designed to prevent any dislocations. There are details in the report, including Dr. Sutter's request for more scans of her hands and feet to get a closer look at the smaller bones there."

"Interesting. And her regenerative ability?"

"Uh, well," Militia had been blunt and efficient so far, so this hesitation caught Sophia's attention. "The self reported data from my initial report was included in this report for reference. Normally, we wouldn't perform damaging tests in first round of testing, but I was called away for a few minutes and when I came back Ratel had used her blades on herself."

Sophia almost chuckled at the silence in the other room. Even the flying damage sponge didn't cut himself for fun.

"I see," Piggy eventually replied. "Anything else?"

"I'd like to request a formal note on their employee records regarding today's power testing. She healed within thirty seconds, but they should have prevented her from self-harm in the first place, Director."

Wait, even the PRT and their "keep the little Wards from actually doing anything" attitude wouldn't rate a formal note for letting someone get cut during power testing. What'd the girl do?

"I'll take it under consideration. Where is Ratel now?"

"She went out to get a late lunch, and should be back in about ten minutes to meet the Wards. I offered a meal with the Wards, but she declined."

Sophia dropped through the floor, ghosting down the still air of the elevator shaft. They could say goodbye or whatever protocol was without her, she didn't want to be late to meet the badass that took down Lung.


	16. 2.1 - Surprise Party

I had just left Burrito Mayhem when it happened.

"Taylor? O...M...G...it is you!"

Emma.

I turned, and found myself facing Emma, Madison, and two lackeys. As they spread out across the sidewalk, little bags with boutique logos dangling from their wrists, I put my back against a wall and took a moment to suppress my instinctive reaction. I'd faced off against Lung, yet a normal teenager can tie my stomach in knots and send a shot of adrenaline through my veins?

"I told you I smelled something, Mads," Emma's voice dripped with saccharine sincerity. "I thought maybe a freezer had gone out at the burrito place. I guess it was just Taylor."

A burst of shrill giggles pierced my eardrums, one downside to my otherwise pretty awesome sensory powers, I guess.

" _What_ is she wearing?" Lackey Number One asked between popping a wad of gum. "Did she really put on a shirt that's, like, yellow with blue stripes?!"

"Oh, Alyson," Emma huffed a weary sigh at the blond twig, "She's never been able to dress herself. When we were children, I took pity on her and tried to teach her the basics, but it was such a struggle. I used to give her a little sticker on days she remembered to put on pants."

"Awwww!" the leeches chorused on cue.

I concentrated on my breathing. I _really_ didn't want to lose control and do something here. I'm too close to joining the Wards and escaping to Arcadia. I'm going to be a hero, and heroes don't assault unpowered teenagers.

"Yes, I tried," Emma sighed, her eyes hard as stone. "But eventually, even I found my limit and had to cut my losses. And then, all through high school, she simply would not leave me alone! So sad."

I caught my hands curling into fists, the skin taut across my knuckles. Slowly relax the hands. Slow breaths.

"Do you think she was actually eating here?" Madison simpered. "Where'd she get the money? Maybe --"

I didn't need to hear whatever story Madison was about to spin about where I got the money. Or, rather, I needed to _not_ hear it. Otherwise, I didn't know what I would do.

Emma was between me and the PRT building. If I tried to push past her and Emma did something...best to avoid temptation. Slowly, I stepped away from Emma, heading between the two lackeys. The two girls tried to close ranks, but I pushed through. I managed to resist shoulder checking them, but the blond teetered on her heels anyway and landed on her ass with a screech.

"This is a _Fendi_ skirt, you Merchant reject!"

I ignored her, stalking away and around the corner, then I ran around the block and back towards the PRT building. Their strange little attack hadn't taken all that long, but I didn't want to be late to meet the Wards. I was still a little nervous about hanging out with other teens, but at least it'd be in a secure area. Emma and her psychotic posse wouldn't be able to ambush me there.

\-----

Before I'd left for lunch, Miss Militia had given me a temporary badge to swipe at a door in one of the parking garages. A plexi-glass encased guard booth greeted me on the other side, with Miss Militia already waiting for me. She waved me forward, down a hall towards the elevator.

"Good afternoon, Ratel," she greeted me as I walked by, "How was lunch?"

"It was," I sighed, "annoying. Ran into some girls from school. Reinforced how much I want to be done with them."

Miss Militia's eyes tightened above her scarf, but didn't say anything as she did something that opened the elevator doors. once inside, she tapped on a glass panel on the wall, and the doors closed with a whisper.

"I'm not going to pry," she said quietly, "but I want you to know that my door is always open for the Wards. Even if you decide to stay independent, you have my number. Please call if you need to talk, or if you want a referral to a therapist who has experience with parahumans."

I nodded, not trusting my voice for a moment. The elevator hum was the only sound for a few seconds.

"There are three main bullies," I said heavily. "I only ran into two of them today, Emma and Madison, and they are the least physical. Along with two flunkies, part of Emma's posse that don't actually initiate anything. Leeches, basically, they just back up the main trio. They said stuff, insulted me, the usual. It shouldn't still bother me so much."

Miss Militia took a moment before speaking. "This is just my opinion, but you feel what you feel. Don't beat yourself up over it still affecting you. That just helps them, makes it easier."

"I guess," I said with a shrug as the elevator hum changed pitch slightly and came to a stop. "At least Sophia wasn't there, she's the third..."

I trailed off as a complicated knot of scents rolled off Miss Militia. I was still parsing confusion, shock, concern, and others as the elevator door whisked open, wafting more aromas from the new floor.

Every muscle in my body tensed as a dark, cloaked figure with a mask like a constipated woman stepped away from the wall.

"Hey, I wanted to meet the badass that killed Lung. I'm --"

" **Sophia** "


	17. The Man in the Back...

**attack**

Sophia leapt away, scrabbling at an empty holster as her back hit the wall. She brought her fists up, then paused, her eyes comically wide within the frowning face of her mask as coils of confusion|fear|anger filled the hallway between us.

**deceit**

Was this the plan all along? Miss Militia would butter me up, make me think they'd let me join, then Sophia would pop out and they'd all laugh?

**traitor**

I turned, eyes sliding away from Sophia. She twitched, anger|relief surging. "What the f--"

"Stalker freeze!" Miss Militia's voice was low, firm, and desperate. Sophia froze, muted relief|confusion wafting off of her as my gaze fell on Miss Militia. Our eyes locked briefly before she looked down.

**shred**

I fought with myself, struggling to keep from lashing out. My chest burned with each breath. Miss Militia was right next to me, barely an arm's length away, half crouched with her open hands up at chest height.

"Ratel," she said softly, slowly, eyes focused somewhere around my collar bone. "Talk to me."

Talk?

**attack**

A twitch in my right arm. My next breath came out a growl as I tried to smother the urge to pop my blades. Miss Militia's eyes tensed even as she kept her body low and loose. She took a slow breath.

"Taylor," she tried again, ignoring Sophia's sharp huff. Sophia's anger crashed over us in a wave. "What's going on, Taylor? Talk to me."

"T-t-talk?" I ground out, the lone word rattling in my chest.

Miss Militia nodded slowly, her flag bandana fluttering as she spoke. "To me. Tell me what's going on."

**trap**

Another twitch, both arms, and a hiss from Sophia. Anger|anger|anger, different flavors, nuances.

I'd been drowning in her emotions. Only her emotions.

I took a breath.

**focus**

There was a layer of burnt anger to Miss Militia, old, ground into her skin. But over that, fresher, there was concern|surprise, and something complex. Determination?

Maybe... maybe she didn't know?

**breathe**

An electronic squeal split the air. I jumped as nozzles swiveled and fired, flecks of foam almost catching my shoes as I leapt out of the elevator. A twist and kick off the wall, and I find myself pressed up against the ceiling with my fists buried in the wall.

"Hostile parahuman," a strident male voice boomed through the hallway. "Stand down!"

**traitor**

Foam is filling the elevator below me. Nozzles swivel. I'm not about to wait and see if they can spray up at the ceiling. There are three nozzles between me and a recessed double door at the end of the hallway. I jump, obliquely, crossing the hallway at an angle.

Shouting behind me. A scream. An impact under my ribs. Not slowing me down, not important. Keep moving.

**tear**

One set of blades opens up the ceiling between two nozzles. I kick off the opposite wall, tag the third nozzle, sink both sets of blades in the wall above the door, and pull down as I drop.

The male voice booms again. Not important.

**rip**

I stand, and a double sweep of my blades, one low and one high, connects the vertical slashes. A flying body slam into the panel I just cut out of the door, and I'm through. Tuck, roll, dart to the right and tumble over a couch.

Screams, shouting, more of that booming voice.

Onto the coffee table, up to the top of the entertainment center, then I reverse direction and push off the wall, leaping back at the door as a shadow floats through the gap I left. Shadows fly from her hands as I plummet. They sting my face like pebbles. Not important.

**rend**

There's a flicker of a solid body, feet churning against the carpet as she back pedals, targeting me with more bits of shadow.

I'm faster.

**pounce**

I land, two blades through each translucent foot, pinning her to the floor. A scream fills the room as she collapses.

**victory**

There's a pause, a lull as Sophia lays gasping on the floor, flickering between shadow and reality.

**feast**

Then more screams, more shouting. People to my right, smells like young people, another girl and at least two boys, scurrying around behind a counter.

Scents in the air. A strange welter of fear|awe|hate|lust|anger from Sophia, various twists of terror|surprise|urine|adrenaline|tears from the others.

The room warps, and suddenly a white glove on an arm thirty feet long is at my shoulder. I twist, left hand flashing across my body in a blink, blades --

**hero**

I pull the slash, leaving a sliver of white floating in the air as the room snaps back to normal.

More shouting. Not important.

I turn back to Sophia. She's still moving, still flickering. Trying to get free. Trying to get her suddenly liberated leg around to kick me, even with the injured foot.

I slam my fist into her shin, timing it so I hit as she flickers into reality. Another scream as my blades bracket the bones just above her ankle, and once again both legs are pinned.

**hurt**

I catch Miss Militia's scent. It's muted compared to the storm of emotions in the air. Controlled. Wary|determination|grief. I turn--

A bass thump, and I'm flying.

I crash into the wall, and stay there, feet trailing awkwardly out in front of me. I glance down at a thick steel rod sticking out of my chest, pinning me to the wall barely a foot off the ground. I look up.

People surround Sophia, chattering of syringes and bandages, something about electricity. Over their heads, I lock eyes with Miss Militia through the window I cut in the door. She's drenched, her hair plastered to her head and wet fatigues drooping, dotted with flecks of foam still dissolving in the counteragent coating her.

There's a green harpoon gun in her hands, still smoking and aimed at me.

**traitor**

A swipe removes the bulk of the harpoon stapling me to the wall, and I reach around to slice where the head enters the wall behind me.

"Don't make me do it, Ratel."

The volume in the room drops at Miss Militia's cry. I pause as she steps through the hole in the door and carefully slides to her right to remove the group around Sophia from her line of fire.

**hopeless**

She keeps her eyes locked on mine the whole time.

"Please, Ratel. We will sort this out."

**rage**

More words. Again. More empty words.

I unleash everything inside me. Everything I'd kept locked down for months. Everything that Sophia had done to me. That Emma had done to me. That Madison had done to me. Everything. I let it all out at once, in a long, wordless roar.

They all freeze. Miss Militia, the group around Sophia, everybody stops at the blast of sound.

Finally, though, my remaining lung gives out. I wheeze in the silence.

I look at my fists, the pale blades spearing out from between my knuckles. This harpoon can't stop me for long. I was too fast for the foam in the hallway. I heal.

I don't have to stop.

I shake my head. I'm tired. I open my fists as my blades slide away, and I look up at Miss Militia.

"She did this to me," I rasp. "She and her friends. Stuffed me in a locker with..with disgusting..."

I shake my head again. "And they got away with it. They left me to die, and they got away with it. I can't even..."

Miss Militia steps closer. She's holding a dark green tablet, which she slides into a pouch at her hip as she kneels just out of arm's reach.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, "I didn't know--"

"No," I interrupt, "No lies. I'm tired of the lies."

She frowns, opens her mouth again.

"Please. I'm tired," I sigh, then shrug around the harpoon. "Foam me, o-or whatever. Just, no more lies."

There's too much in the air. I don't know what I'm smelling off her as she blinks at me, then nods. She motions me forward, and I slide off the harpoon, then slump to the floor.

"Arms out, please," she asks quietly, motioning to someone out of my field of view.

I hold my arms out, then there's a tap on the top of my head.


End file.
